


All of This Can Be Broken

by Indybaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bad Decisions, Blow Jobs, Comfort Sex, Coping, Depressed John, Drunk Sex, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Fix-It of Sorts, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2671484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the events of His Last Vow, John has sex with Mycroft seven times. He’s not gay, but this isn’t sex, it’s a release. An exhale...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September 10th, 2014

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to NEcumberbitch for beta duty and Jie_Jie for Brit-picking, you keep me right! <3

  


 

 

John is thrumming out of his skin. 

He packs his clothes into a backpack every night, folds his shirts into neat, controlled lines. He catches himself taking large gulps of air, sucking it in greedily, as if he’s preparing to run. Instead he goes to work, then home. He sleeps next to Mary in their large, comfortable bed, her warm weight against him, her hair smelling of shampoo. He feels as if something is gripping his throat, tight.

He’s antsy and angry, and he doesn’t know why. It’s only been a month. Normal people can go a month without seeing their best mate, as Mary keeps on reminding him. He was supposed to enjoy this. A honeymoon, then settling in with a wife and baby on the way. 

Instead, he dreams about war and Sherlock and wakes up vibrating with something dark. 

John goes to that crack house, because their neighbour asked, he doesn’t even care why. It’s a relief to walk in there, between the peeling walls and the stench of piss. To let himself look into a junkie’s eyes, push the door in, and walk past graffiti and scattering rats into a cold, damp ruin of a house. _This is it,_ this is what he’s been aching for, John’s making jokes because it feels so good. Some part of him wants to walk straight into that knife and feel it twist between his ribs. Instead he knocks the guy down, movements practiced and too-easy for a middle-aged doctor. He should feel some guilt about that. He doesn’t. 

Life with Mary is good, it’s sane, it’s average, and it’s what he’s always dreamt for himself. Yet this is what fits like a well-worn shirt. 

The walls are rough faded brick. There are bits of plaster and glass crunching under John’s feet as he walks up the stairs. Faint light falling through boarded up and sheeted over windows, revealing too-skinny unwashed bodies. Hollow eyes and sharp collarbones. Faded tattoos, scraped up knuckles and infected veins, people rotting to bits on shit-soaked mattresses.

John finds who he’s looking for. Isaac is high, sure, but well enough. He’ll take him home. 

And then there’s Sherlock’s voice, “Did you come for me, too?” 

It’s a like a wave hitting John in the back, rolling over him like ice water. And no, he didn’t come for Sherlock. In his mind Sherlock is lying on Baker Street’s sofa in a liquid sprawl, or yelling at Mrs. Hudson about a case, or running through London, grinning, alive with wit and energy. But he’s here, instead. High. 

John wants to hit him. Use his knuckles until he can feel flesh give, the crunch of bone, the warm splatter of blood. Wants to yell that it’s not his fault, dammit, _that this is not his fault,_ for staying away. That he _loves_ Mary. Instead he follows Sherlock out of the house, over the railing, jumps from a dumpster, all without a second thought because his body copies Sherlock’s as easy as breathing, even now. 

He should be used to this feeling, John thinks. He’s not. 

Sherlock reeks, once he’s in the car there’s something sour and rank about him filling up the space. There’s dirt on his face, Sherlock tries to get it off haphazardly but then gives up. John fights the urge to wipe it off himself, scrape it off with his nails. 

Sherlock could have called. Texted, come by, fucking yelled for help. But he didn’t. _A month._

John lets the deductions about his own unhappiness bounce around his ears, then makes a call when Sherlock isn’t paying attention. On the other end of the line, Mycroft sighs, too. 

The drive to Baker Street passes in a sullen silence. Mycroft’s already sitting on the stairs when they arrive, worried efficiency in a three-piece suit. His eyes flicker over Sherlock, and then to John, and there’s a tired gratitude there, John sees. _Of course he bloody well called him,_ he needs him. He can’t do this alone, anymore. Keep Sherlock safe. 

Sherlock curls up onto his sofa like a petulant child. He looks pale and shiny with sweat. His high is coming down and there’s something painful about it, something that makes John want to throw everyone out and close the door behind them. Get Sherlock in a shower and feed him and make it all feel normal again. 

But it’s not, is it? 

John still has a knife in his pocket and a tyre iron in his trousers. The metal has warmed up now. It feels surprisingly comfortable. 

Sherlock rattles on about a case he thinks is worth all of this, _Magnussen_. John isn’t sure if he’s simply using it as an excuse for the drugs or if it is actually relevant. It succeeds in riling Mycroft up; at least. He snarls “If you go against Magnussen, then you will find yourself going against me!” 

Mycroft is mainly worried for Sherlock, John knows, frustrated, this is not the day that any of them planned on having. But Sherlock is raw right now, a string ready to snap, and arguing with him does not seem like the best idea.

John’s right. Sherlock explodes and tackles Mycroft to the doorframe, hard, slams him into the wood with an audible thump. 

Mycroft cries out, tries to get away, but he can’t, Sherlock’s strong and _livid_. 

John interferes without thinking about it, “Mycroft...” he tries to sound sensible. They can always talk about this later, when Sherlock isn’t a hair-trigger away from bodily assault. Snipe about it over tea, like they usually do. Mycroft strains against Sherlock, buckles underneath him, he bites his lip, his eyes shut tight in humiliation. “Don’t say another word, just go. He could snap you in two and right now I’m slightly worried that he might.”

Sherlock releases Mycroft. He takes a couple steps to the side, but he seems in no mood to apologise. “I need a bath.” He doesn’t even look back, just disappears into the bathroom.

Mycroft steps away slowly. He cradles his arm, and he’s looking rather less put together than John is used to seeing him, breathing fast. He’s looking at the floor. Ah yes, his umbrella. John bends down, picks it up for him, and sees... _Well._ John straightens up, coughs awkwardly, and hands his umbrella to him. Mycroft’s hard.

Mycroft snags it out of his hand. He’s slightly flushed. 

Right. That’s more than he ever needed to know, John thinks. It’s a bit amusing, really, but he can’t say that he wouldn’t have responded the same. In fact, maybe it’s just the utter insanity of this day, but he feels it, too. Sherlock unrefined and pissed off like that, he wouldn’t mind getting thrown against a wall or two himself. Not that it’ll ever happen. 

Mycroft is eyeing him uncomfortably, probably trying to decide if he needs to threaten him into tomorrow, or if he can just leave and never, ever mention this again. John realises he’s still looking at Mycroft’s trousers, looks away, then looks again. It’s a little tantalising. He’s never thought of Mycroft like this. What would turn him on. John almost wants to dare him to say something. _Please explain, Mycroft. Does that do it for you, then?_

It feels like balancing on a knife’s edge, standing here, looking at him and _knowing_.

John thinks _I bet you haven’t met that many men you can’t intimidate,_ reaches out a hand, and cups the front of Mycroft’s trousers.

Mycroft looks at him in shock. 

John meets Mycroft’s gaze evenly. _There’s nothing he can say, is there?_ Nothing he can argue with. John feels utterly reckless, the adrenaline is making his heart pound and his hands feel steady. He can feel Mycroft, the warm, solid outline of his erection against his hand, hardening a little under his touch. This is insane, he knows. He softly thumbs the head. 

Mycroft’s mouth opens, John can see the bottom row of his teeth, the quick swipe of his tongue as he licks his lips. He glances over to the living room, the direction where Sherlock went, but he’s definitely in the bath. John can hear him turn on the water. 

Mycroft looks at him with trepidation. _He’s not saying no though, is he?_

John feels that look curl in his belly. God, it’s just what he needs today. To let go. Just once, and then he’ll be able to take it again. Just this, just now. 

Mycroft’s gaze flickers over him, probably trying to determine if he’s serious about this. Then he hesitantly nods.

John breathes out, puts his hand on Mycroft hip, and shoves him around, back to the doorframe, uses his knee to keep him right there. John palms him roughly, finds Mycroft’s buttons, Mycroft’s helping, pulls his cock out. It’s fast and clumsy, their hands scrabble together but John doesn’t care, just want to feel it, hot and hard under his fingers. 

Mycroft grips the doorframe, and John starts to stroke. He can’t see what he’s doing but he doesn’t need to, he’s done it often enough. To himself, to other soldiers, that time in a bar, once. He’s not gay, but this isn’t sex, it’s a release. An exhale. 

He moves his hand back and forth in a rough rhythm, Mycroft squirms a little underneath his touch, a soft sound escaping until he presses his hand over his mouth, and damn, if that isn’t a rush. John’s making _Mycroft Holmes_ try to keep quiet. 

John’s hard too; he rubs himself against Mycroft’s leg before he can think about it. Mycroft’s cock twitches in response, so John breathes into Mycroft’s back, and pushes his erection against his arse, _there you go_. It’s a crude parody of a fuck, Mycroft moving underneath him, his hand still pressed tightly over his mouth. 

John wanks him in shorts pulls and long, grinding ones, the seconds drawing out tensely. 

Sherlock takes long baths but not always. Mrs. Hudson could come up. John doesn’t care, right now, with the feeling of Mycroft’s cock in his hand. _Let them see him, like this._ Let Mrs. Hudson scream, and Sherlock’s eyes widen with disgust, surprise, that he can do this, that he _will_. 

Mycroft’s moving into his hand now, then back against his crotch. John uses his hips to pin him down and speeds it up, jerks him off fast, grinds his cock against him. 

Mycroft comes with a muffled sound, and John steps away as soon as he’s done. He’s breathless himself, painfully hard. He pulls the tyre iron out of his trousers and puts it onto the table with a heavy thump, then unzips. It won’t take long. 

He still has some of Mycroft’s come on his fingers.

Mycroft turns around, eyes him, and buttons himself back up. There are obvious teeth marks on Mycroft’s hand, red and raised on his pale skin. John made Mycroft _bite his own hand to keep quiet._

Mycroft presses the creases out of his trousers, smoothes the fabric of his jacket down and if Sherlock would come out now, if he would see this, he would _know_ , John thinks. That he just got his brother off against a doorframe. He strokes himself, hard. 

Mycroft cautiously reaches out in an offer to touch him. John lets go and lets him, lets him curl his soft, gentle fingers around his cock. Then wraps his own hand over Mycroft’s, makes him move in fast, short strokes. _Fuck, yeah._

Mycroft’s ring feels smooth against his cock. He can smell a hint of Mycroft’s cologne.

Out of all the times he’s fantasised about having sex in this kitchen, it was never like this, John thinks, distantly. 

Mycroft’s looking down at what he’s doing, a slight flush on his face. He’s _enjoying_ it. It makes John feel something nasty, too, _bet he never would have deduced this. Bet he never saw it coming._ John hasn’t had sex like this in ages, he doesn’t need to hold back and it’s a fucking relief. He just moves into it, Mycroft tightens his hand and that’s it, John comes in response, gushes over their entangled fingers. 

He lets go of Mycroft’s hand as soon as he can remember to. Turns away, holds up his trousers, and shuffles over to the sink to wash his hands. 

Mycroft waits until he’s done, then does the same. There’s no towel, so John runs his hands over the sides of his trousers, then zips them back up. Mycroft takes care to use soap, waves his hands in the direction of the sink in a dismissive movement, then takes his pocket square and carefully dries every finger. He probably usually has sex that involves plush towels and grand rooms and ten thousand pound gadgets, John thinks. Not rutting in a dirty kitchen. 

But he made him do it anyway. 

John waits for the wave of guilt to hit him. He just cheated on Mary. Instead he feels mostly satisfied, and a tad hungry. He could go for one of Mrs. Hudson’s breakfasts about now, although she’s most likely not awake yet. The herbal soothers always make her sleep in. John takes the tyre iron from the table and puts it back at the edge of his trousers. It’s probably best not to leave that with Sherlock right now. 

“John,” Mycroft says, coolly, in a way that probably passes for restraint, from him. He’s folding his pocket square, and puts it back where it came from. Not a hair out of place.

John smiles wryly. ‘Was it as good for you as if was for me’ is kind of out of the question, he thinks. 

“I imagine that this was a momentary lapse of judgement.” Mycroft doesn’t frame it as a question. 

The warning is clear. _What happens in Baker Street stays in Baker Street._ Only not the way he’d want it to, John thinks bitterly. Wrong brother. “Yes.” That sounds about right. They’ll forget that this ever happened. That works. 

Mycroft nods. “Agreed.” He takes his umbrella, and leaves. 

John watches him go, and listens to his footsteps fade as he goes down the stairs. The picture of discretion, Mycroft. He’ll never breathe another word of it, John is surprisingly certain of that. 

There are some drops of come on the floor. John imagines Sherlock seeing them and deducing what happened. He grimaces, and rummages around the kitchen until he finds a sponge to wipe them off. Then uses his shoe to push some dust over the now suspiciously clean swipe of floorboard. With any luck, Sherlock won’t notice. 

Sherlock has a case on, he’ll be distracted anyway. He’ll come out of the bathroom looking like himself again, they’ll chase some criminals and solve some puzzles. John feels hopeful, knowing that. Maybe it‘ll be like before, again. Maybe, just for a day, they can run through London together and pretend that it’s anything like it used to be. 

And then Janine walks out of Sherlock’s bedroom. 

They go after Magnussen. 

And it all goes to hell.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. September 17th, 2014

 

 

 

 _Mary isn’t even her name._

John is having a child with her, he bought a flat with her, married her, and he doesn’t even know a single thing about her that’s true. Except that she’s a killer, and apparently it’s his fault. He brought it upon himself, _because that’s what you’re attracted to, John Watson. You’re the man who gets hard for psychopaths,_ and they all know it. 

John goes along in the ambulance, second time. Stays until Sherlock’s settled in and drugged, and goes home, where Mary looks at him and doesn’t say a word. 

She’s been crying. 

Inside his own head, John screams until he doesn’t have a voice anymore. In reality, he pushes out a couple strangled words in Mary’s direction and that’s it. After she’s gone to bed he methodically hits the same patch of wall, over and over again. Then lies down on the sofa, where his knuckles throb and his head bursts and doesn’t sleep a bit. He drinks, enough to dull it all a little, not enough to really give in to it. 

Then gets up early and goes back to the hospital before Mary’s even awake, because Sherlock is being wheeled back in for another operation. The bleeding can’t be controlled; they have to go back in, every chance of being successful, etc. Sherlock gives him a weak glance as he goes. 

John could go to work, he supposes. Except that that’s where Mary will be, so he goes to Sherlock’s empty hospital room and sits there instead. 

It hits him only slowly, that Sherlock’s in surgery again. That he probably should be worrying. His brain keeps on skipping back and forth, keeps on thinking of Mary, and then, _oh no, she’s a killer._ Psychopath extraordinaire, his wife. She really should have married Sherlock, instead. They would have gotten along swimmingly. 

John’s not entirely sure on what he’s supposed to be feeling anymore. If there’s supposed to be anything left. It’s raining, water ticking on the windows, rolling over them in uneven, unpredictable patterns. He watches that for a while, dully. 

Until someone softly knocks, and opens the door. Mycroft. Black suit, today. His umbrella is wet. He seems... trepidatious. 

Ah, yes. _Of course._

“You knew then?” John asks, his voice sounding almost casual. It’s as if he barely cares, now. Funny, that. 

Mycroft closes the door behind him. With the empty bed and John in the only chair, there is not much space for him to go anywhere. He stays right there. 

This is personal, John thinks. Looking at Mycroft, his uncertainty. They’re hardly friends, but he’s known Mycroft for years, he could have said something. _‘Oh, by the way, did you know that your wife is a trained assassin?’_ Surely that’s the least he’d be worth. But no, Mycroft lied to him for years about Sherlock, too, didn’t he? Does he really not know a single person that’s to be trusted, at all? 

“I did not.” Mycroft hesitates, his eyes lingering on John’s bruised hand, knuckles swollen blue and purple now. On the no doubt impressive bags under his eyes, and whatever else he can read. “I am sorry, John.” 

Yeah. _Sure._ “Why?” 

“I never considered looking any further into her past than I did. I should have.” Mycroft actually sounds as if he’s berating himself for that, for not screening his wife more carefully. 

“It’s fine,” John says, because that’s all he knows how to say, anymore. _It’s fine, it’s all fine._ Sherlock didn’t see it either, didn’t he? Not until she was pointing a gun at him, and it was too late. 

Every second of their relationship, a lie. Their wedding, John told Mary in front of everyone he knows that he would love her forever, and it was all a facade. He’s been duped, again. Another year of his life that’s not real, a convenient dream, _let’s all lie to John; he doesn’t have a clue anyway._

“You are not fine.” Mycroft says, as if that’s anything new. 

John snorts. Geniuses, these Holmes brothers. Perceptive. And there it is, the deep, pulsing thread of anger he feels for Sherlock, too. For leaving him for two years, for letting him grieve, for building him up and destroying him, over and over again. For telling him it’s his own fault, that this is what he chose, that this is what he’s attracted to. 

And John can’t hate Sherlock right now, can he? Not while he’s in surgery. Not while Sherlock nearly died from being shot by John’s own wife. And he can’t hate Mary either, apparently, Sherlock’s last words were to forgive her, so he’s not allowed a single reaction towards either of them, John has to take it, just take it, again and again. 

Mycroft is looking at him with concern. “Is there anything you wish me to do?” 

What- get Mary? Have her disappeared into some Serbian prison? She’s pregnant. With his child, or at least probably, John thinks. Who knows whether she lied about that, too. He briefly wonders what Mycroft would say if he’d ask him to anyway. _Make her go away._

Or... Sure. Why not. John is angry enough for it, empty enough. He stands up. “Lock the door.” 

Mycroft frowns. “Why?” 

John walks into Mycroft’s space, feeling as if he’s moving in a dream, or underwater, perhaps. Mycroft takes a step back. He seems affronted, “Surely this is not...”

John locks the door for him, puts his hand on Mycroft’s wrist, and twists it. Mycroft cries out, he scrambles backwards, his shoulders bump into the door, and his umbrella clatters to the floor. John uses his body weight to trap him there, fits his thighs to Mycroft’s. _He can’t make this any clearer, can he?_

John looks into Mycroft’s eyes, anger thrumming through him. _Take it or leave it._

“Is this truly what you want to do?” Mycroft sounds perplexed at the idea, but he is already leaning back, already giving in. 

_So yes it is then._ Great. John touches Mycroft’s trousers, fumbles with the buttons, then pulls them down. Mycroft’s not hard at all. It doesn’t matter. John sinks to his knees and uses his hand to guide Mycroft’s cock between his lips. 

Mycroft breathes oddly, surprise, perhaps. John barely registers it, just closes his eyes, and moves his head back and forth in a rhythm that’s all army bunks and late nights, drunk showers, behind the wall or just-lock-the-door. It’s ‘my friend just died’, and ‘I can’t go on like this’, and ‘if I see one more dead body today...’ 

It’s the memory of desperation, and the taste of it, too. Mycroft’s cock in his mouth filling out, a dribble of spit running down John’s chin. 

There’s a whole world out there- people passing by in the hallway, footsteps coming threateningly close and then leaving again, strings of conversation weaving in and out of earshot. There’s the wet sound of sucking, of back and forth, in and out. Mycroft is getting hard fast. John’s lips feel numb. 

There’s a soft thud when Mycroft leans more solidly against the door. John doesn’t look up, just uses his hand as well, jacks him off while he sucks him. He builds the rhythm fast, keeps his hand tight because this isn’t sex, it’s getting off. John is good at this, _he’s always had to be, he’s barely ever had more, only this kind of thing and it’s been enough, it’s always been enough to..._

John’s knees start to ache on the cold, linoleum floor. His neck has a crick from the angle, he breathes though his nose, and he doesn’t care, doesn’t _care_. 

Mycroft’s tasting like it now, unpleasant and sharp and he says, quietly, “John.” 

As a warning, but it’s one he doesn’t need. John sucks hard, speeds it up and yes, Mycroft comes, filling his mouth, nearly making him gag. It sounds more like it hurts than anything else. 

John lets it gather on the back of his tongue, moves away from Mycroft’s wet cock, a thin thread of come still connecting them as it pulls from between his lips. John wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then gets up stiffly. _Fuck,_ his knees. They’re tingling painfully as he walks over to the bathroom sink, and spits. 

He makes the water run, rinses his mouth, spits that out, too, and wipes his face with the hospital-provided sickly grey clumps of paper towels. 

Mycroft has pulled his trousers back up by the time he looks back.

It’s Mycroft’s face, this time. Something in the way he looks away, faintly ashamed. Unsatisfied debauchery on a weekday morning.

John’s vaguely hard himself, although he doesn’t know where that came from. He doesn’t want to come. Mycroft is about to speak when there’s a wiggle of the door handle, and then a knock. 

John can’t help but feel a pinch of relief. 

Mycroft opens the door to a nurse, carrying forms that need to be filled out. John accepts them, and Mycroft leaves with a short look. 

He’ll be back, John thinks, and he’s right. Mycroft returns half an hour later, umbrella wet again, smelling vaguely of cigarette smoke. 

They wheel Sherlock back to the ICU after that, operation a success. John goes to be with him there, and stays by Sherlock’s side for most of the day. He only steps outside to use the washroom on wooden legs, to splash water in his face. It still feels like a dream, all of this. 

Mycroft leaves before noon with a lingering gaze at Sherlock’s pale body, and a pinched look of worry on his face. 

John drinks coffee to get rid of the taste of Mycroft’s come on the back of his tongue. He eats part of Sherlock’s lunch, since he’s not awake to want it himself. 

It’s probably rather boring, to watch every flutter of pain on Sherlock’s face for hours on end, to observe him waver in and out of consciousness, but John doesn’t want to leave, sinks into long strings of thinking about _nothing, absolutely nothing…_

When he goes back home to Mary, he buys a bottle along the way. 

_It’s rather time to get horrifyingly drunk now._

 

 

 

 

 


	3. September 23rd, 2014

 

 

 

John packs in complete silence. His laptop, charger. Shaving foam. He pauses in every room of the flat to make sure he’s got it all. It fits in a backpack and two suitcases. The ones they bought for their honeymoon. 

He goes to Baker Street- where else would he go. Sherlock isn’t using it right now, and besides, he already knew he’d return, John’s chair is there. By the empty fireplace that still vaguely reeks of piss. 

John hasn’t slept in his bed here in three years, and the sheets smell like something old and forgotten, but he doesn’t take the effort of changing them. He feels like a relic, himself, lying here. Eyes stinging and dry because he can’t close them for more than a couple seconds before the images start. So he looks at the ceiling, familiar as well, that. Too many nights here silently screaming and falling apart over Sherlock’s death. 

Three years ago, he would have given his own life for this, John thinks. Sherlock in the hospital, slowly healing. It would have meant the world. 

He was content, then. He knew he couldn’t combine a relationship with having Sherlock, too, not really, and he’d decided, somewhere after the first year, that that would be fine. That he could be happy as Sherlock’s best friend. Running beside him and living beside him for the next however many years, and fuck it, he was. The most maddening, most rewarding time of his life. 

And then Sherlock pretended to die and John pretended to move on. And Mary, the person he _could_ love, the one that was safe to care for, is not real and there’s nothing left, now. Nothing to stand on. 

John stumbles around the flat, forgets where he put his razor and where the towels are, realises he only took one pair of shoes and that there’s a lacy, red thong underneath the bathroom sink. He ignores it for a whole shower, then picks it up and throws it into Sherlock’s room. That’s what mates do, probably. _Don’t bin their friend’s conquest’s underwear._

John’s never lived here without Sherlock, except in those weeks right after his death and it’s hard to be surrounded by faded memories. Hard, to hear the creaking stairs and the faint mumble of Mrs. Hudson’s radio shows. To navigate the kitchen and how he still knows the right way to turn the tap and where that one scrape on the counter comes from. Hard how he still can’t look at Sherlock’s empty chair without feeling a punch of grief.

He can’t sleep for more than a couple hours at a time. Every day feels as if it drags on too long. He feels uneven, unsettled. It’s autumn now, lots of grey skies and dull rain and greasy-looking leaves littering the pavement. 

He plans his shifts around Mary’s, so they won’t have to interact much. He doesn’t see Mycroft again, which is probably a good thing. And most likely entirely on purpose, because Mycroft does visit Sherlock as well, judging by Sherlock’s angry protests. 

John feels slightly ashamed of what he did now. Of how determined he was for it. It’s not even that Mycroft is Sherlock’s brother; it’s just that he was there, and at least marginally interested. It’s that he could. 

John goes to the hospital daily. Sherlock is only recovering slowly, and he’s weak and cranky about it, too. Still John stays late every night, even if it’s only to watch Sherlock doze and read a book himself, because there’s nothing in Baker Street to go home to. 

Sherlock complains often, so John’s only half listening when he remarks, mouth turned down in distaste, “...and what have you said to Mycroft?”

John presses his finger to the paragraph he was at, then looks up. “Sorry?”

“He keeps on asking me how you _are_.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You’re not going to kill yourself, are you? Would be rather tedious.” 

John knows that there’s care hidden underneath there. Possibly. Somewhere. 

He hasn’t considered killing himself this time around, actually. Not like when Sherlock died, when it was on the back of his mind for months, as a practical, almost kind thought, to know that he could end it. A failsafe. Mary probably did save his life, showing up when she did. John can hardly be grateful for that now, though. “Hmm, not planning on it, no.”

“Good.” Sherlock says, and looks away to top up his morphine. John wonders if he lowered it on purpose to ask him that. Then shrugs it off. Seems unlikely. 

But it does remind him of Mycroft, again. They’re going to have to face each other sooner or later. And not... um. Like that. _Although._ John asks offhandedly, “Does he have someone, Mycroft? A relationship, anything like that?”

Sherlock snorts. “No. That would require human interaction.” He closes his eyes, then opens them again, looks a tad alarmed, “Why?”

John tries to seem ashamed. It’s not hard. “Anthea? I wondered if they’re... Never mind.” 

Sherlock frowns. “You’re married, John.” He seems a little more open, more emotional than usual. It’s the drugs, John knows. “You can’t do that to Mary.” 

John opens his mouth to react, _he_ can’t do that? _He_ can’t do that to her? Then swallows his reply, digs his nails into his palms instead. For some bizarre reason Sherlock still seems to be fond of Mary. He keeps on urging him to go back, to forgive her, and frankly, it’s insulting. John’s sick of hearing it. She shot Sherlock, she’s the whole reason that they’re in this hospital in the first place, Sherlock weak and hooked up to drugs, and still Sherlock won’t choose John’s side over hers. After all that. 

John gets up. 

Sherlock looks at him. “What? You’re angry. Why?” 

“It’s late,” John manages. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He walks out. He’s halfway down the hallway when he realises he’s still holding his book. It wasn’t very good anyhow. He leaves it on the nurses’ station. 

John hasn’t exactly been in the mood for masturbating lately, but when he gets home that night, he sits down on the sofa and unzips his trousers. 

He resolutely ignores the flash of unease, thinking of Mary’s breasts and soft skin. Routinely skips around the thoughts of dark curls and pale limbs and Sherlock’s grin; John’s had years of practice on that one. Years of recklessly pulling himself off in his bed, sometimes right here in the living room, breathing loudly, hoping that Sherlock wouldn’t know, hoping that he might. 

So instead his eyes flicker over to the kitchen. Because at least Sherlock doesn’t, will _never_ , know about that. 

John replays the way Mycroft gripped the doorframe. He thinks of maybe fucking him, since he’d seemed to want it. _Making him scream for real._ It feels detached, even in his own head, it’s hardly his deepest desire. 

But it’s also safe to wander into, to imagine what Mycroft looks like beyond the flash of pale arse he’s seen. What it would be like to peel him out of that suit, to suck him slow, make him beg for it. 

John’s cock doesn’t seem to mind, and he gets off like a reflex. 

 

The next day, after visiting Sherlock, John sends Mycroft a text. 

It’s been three years since he’s been inside the Diogenes Club, but it still looks exactly the same. Smells the same, too. Like polished wood and cigars. Mycroft is in none of the settees, only old, grey men, some of them John recognises from the newspapers. They’re having tea and brandy, and all are reading in perfect silence. 

John knows better than to ask questions this time around, waits until he finds one of the attendants and whispers, “Mycroft Holmes?” The attendant nods, and motions John to follow him, down another hallway, then knocks on a door quietly. 

There’s a tired reply. “Yes?”

Mycroft is alone, shadowed by a whole lot of books and woodwork, a pile of files next to his seat. At Mycroft’s nod, the valet closes the door behind him. “John.” Mycroft doesn’t look particularly enthused to see him. Then again, when does he ever, John thinks. 

Mycroft stands up and walks over to the drinks stand. He takes a crystal decanter, pours a drink for himself, holds it up to the light, then has a careful sip before facing him. “I take it Sherlock is being his charming self?”

“Yes. They halved his morphine, he didn’t love that.” 

Mycroft just raises his eyebrows in reply. 

John steps forward, but before he can make some sort of pass at him, Mycroft says, warningly, “I am not my brother, John.” 

John stops. _Fuck._ “I know that.” 

“Do you?” Mycroft looks at him with knowing eyes. There’s a hint of compassion there. 

John feels a stab of anger. _Who does he think he is, really?_ “Do I know that you’re not Sherlock? Yes, I do. I’m not _blind_.”

Mycroft takes a sip of his drink, eyes him. “Then why are you here?” 

To not have to talk about it, for one thing. To get off. _But if he’s not wanted, well._ “You’d rather I go then?”

Mycroft seems to think about it. John can see his eyes travelling over him, his face, his shirt; they linger on his shoes for a whole second. Then Mycroft sighs, and puts his drink back onto the tray. “Sit down.”

John walks to the seats, but doesn’t sit. He briefly wonders if there is going to be a negotiation involved. A safe word. Signing the Official Secrets Act in triplicate, getting it stamped by her majesty herself, perhaps. 

“Lower your trousers.”

John looks at Mycroft. He seems to be entirely serious. _Fine._ John unbuckles his belt, unzips his trousers, lets them fall down, then pushes his pants down to his knees. _He’s never been scared of doing that, has he?_ Mycroft has seen it all before anyway. 

“Now sit.” 

John does, conscious of the leather under his bare arse. He wonders if Mycroft has a bit of voyeurism in mind. He can imagine it clearly, Mycroft sitting across from him, slowly sipping a drink as he gets himself off. He’s not erect yet, but his cock is definitely interested in the idea. “What- you want me to touch myself?”

“No.” Mycroft sighs, he takes a cushion from the other chair, and looks at him. “I believe it’s my turn.” 

He walks over, and places it on the floor. Right between John’s legs. 

Oh! John feels a bit taken aback. “Um, fine, yeah.” _No reason to turn down a blowjob._

Mycroft kneels cautiously on the cushion. He bends over, but it’s to push John’s trousers further out of the way. John quickly takes his shoes off, pulls his trousers and pants over his feet; then his socks, for good measure. Mycroft puts them carefully to the side. Then runs his hands upwards from John’s ankles to the inside of his knees, only to pause there. 

It’s bizarre, to see Mycroft between his legs, looking up at him questioningly. John nods. _Yeah, go ahead._

Mycroft continues to stroke, traces up and down his legs, then thumbs the lines of his hip bones. Not soft enough to tickle, but wandering, feeling his flesh, his reaction to being touched. 

John feels a little awkward. If Mycroft wants to suck him that’s fine, _he always knew he was gay, didn’t he,_ but he should just _get to it already._ He doesn’t, though, simply skips to the other leg. 

By the time Mycroft’s fingertips touch his balls, carefully weigh and feel the shape of them, John’s fully hard and staring at the bookcase to Mycroft’s side. When Mycroft leans over, and finally, finally licks a small, lingering trail across his erection, John’s cock rises up towards his mouth immediately, and yeah, it’s pretty fucking clear that _he wants it,_ alright? 

Mycroft doesn’t hurry it up though, just drags the soft edge of his lips over his cock. Opens his mouth completely, breathes out hotly, John can feel that. And then he gently, very slowly, presses his teeth to the base, and bites down. 

John’s legs start trembling, and he looks at the ceiling. _Fuck._

Mycroft repeats the move, and he’s not even hurting him, just putting his teeth to his skin. Reminding him that they’re there, that he _could,_ if he wanted to. John gets his meaning perfectly clear, and responds to it, he can feel the threat of it stab through him. His cock jumps up against his belly after every pass. 

Mycroft’s eyes are closed. His face is impassive but it’s clear in the way he moves, the way he’s dragging it out, that he knows what he’s doing. Of course he does, John thinks. _Of course he sucks cock like he means it._

Mycroft licks his balls with soft, indulgently wet swipes of tongue. He opens his mouth to the inside of John’s thigh, kisses there gently. His teeth are small points of pressure, and John’s watching him so he knows what’s coming, he tenses against it. Mycroft bites down, sharply, then sucks hard and John groans before he realises he’s done it. Mycroft’s eyes flicker open, briefly, he’s checking on him, John thinks. Whatever he sees must be good enough because he closes them again, sighs softly against the wet, pulsing skin of John’s inner thigh. He briefly mouths the side of John’s cock again, and goes over to the other leg, delivers a series of small, stinging bites, pulls the flesh between his teeth, then sucks it. 

It’s the one of the more lingering blowjobs John’s ever had. It feels cruel; Mycroft’s dragging it out on purpose. Showing him what he can do. _What he can make him feel._ Eventually Mycroft does lick the head, nearly too sensitive by now, with a broad, slow sweep, and it’s enough to make John breathe in sharply, instantly close to coming, and then he moves away again. 

Mycroft moves to his knee, bites there. When he comes back and takes him into his mouth, John tenses with the satisfaction of it, but there’s hardly any friction there, just hot and wet. Mycroft pins his hips down, doesn’t let him move, then pulls off slowly, his lips forming a tight ring around John’s cock as he leaves. Then he doesn’t repeat it, just goes back to another spot and bites there. 

John’s legs are pulsing with stings, they feel raw with pleasure. He shudders every time Mycroft’s mouth moves even close to his cock. There’s a white drop of precome appearing, his cock just preparing to come all on its own, and Mycroft looks at it, then at him. John thinks that yes, _yes, now he will._ But no, Mycroft reaches out the tip of his tongue, just touches it to the drop, closes his lips around it and sucks it away gently. That’s it. 

_Fuck!_ John groans in frustration, enough is enough, “I’m going to...” He has to take a breath here, swallow, he sounds rough, “come, just...” He breathes, controls himself, tenses his stomach muscles, “so you know.” 

Mycroft looks at him, smiles, and softly runs a long, thin finger over the crease of his groin. Touches the bites there, red and raised. “Yes, John. I know.” 

John breathes out in a burst of air. That shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but if Mycroft says that again he might _come from the words alone, which is probably exactly what he wants, the narcissist._ “Then can you, _please_...” Mycroft’s fingers travel closer to his erection, scratch through his pubes, and John twists enough so that the edge of Mycroft’s knuckles bump into his straining cock. 

Mycroft seems to take pity on him because he bends down, and yes, the sight... He takes him into his mouth, and sucks, and John lets go immediately, a wave of heat flowing from his spine. He comes in long, hard spasms into Mycroft’s mouth. 

Then sinks back into the chair, still shuddering, as the sensation seems to echo through him. 

Mycroft gets up with some difficulty. He puts the cushion back, gets his glass, sits down and has a drink. There’s some redness around his mouth from the friction, but besides that he looks as composed as ever. 

John is splayed out in his chair, slowly cooling down. He can feel the air on his wet, spent cock. His thighs are throbbing where the bites are, and patches of his skin are swollen and red, still glistering wet with spit. Most of it will bruise. He can’t bring himself to mind. 

He feels a little drunk on it, on coming like that. A little hazy, shaky. John looks at Mycroft. _What does he want in return?_

But Mycroft catches his eye, and says. “I believe we’re even.”

“I can suck you.” John feels rather stupid saying that out loud. He’s never had to talk about it much, usually you just make sure it’s okay, and then _do_. He stands up, aware that he’s half-naked, and walks over.

Mycroft looks at him with a guarded expression. 

Takes another drink, swallows it slowly. Looks at him again. Then reaches down and unbuttons his trousers. There’s a wet spot on his pants from precome. He pulls it over his erection, and scoots forward. He’s red and hard and John wonders for a second if that’s what made him hesitate, admitting that that turned him on. A lot, apparently. John doesn’t care though, really, it’s a compliment, isn’t it? He sinks to his knees. He doesn’t exactly have the patience to get Mycroft’s shoes off and trousers away, just takes Mycroft’s cock in his hand. He runs his tongue over it, feels the smooth, warm flesh of him between his lips. 

And then, _okay_. John’s stomach feels tight as he leans in, lets go of Mycroft’s cock, and kisses his thigh. He just briefly presses his lips there, then opens his mouth enough for his teeth to touch the flesh. Mycroft breathes out shakily, so he does it again, then looks up. As he thought, Mycroft is watching him. 

Right. So that’s what he likes, then. A bit of teasing. _Fine._

John bites him carefully, then goes back to Mycroft’s cock, tightens his lips around him, sucks him in, slowly, and then leaves him again. Mycroft is much more responsive like this than last time. He leans into movements, away from some others. He’s slightly ticklish; when John tries to trace his finger over the lower bit of his belly, right above his cock, his stomach moves and he pulls a face. 

So John licks Mycroft’s inner legs. Pulls his trousers down and sucks the soft skin on the inside of his thighs. It feels strange. John can’t take him too deep in his mouth without gagging like this, but he does it as well as he can, strokes him with his hand at the same time. Then licks and bites Mycroft’s legs again, leaves him wanting it. It works, Mycroft arches along with every pass. His breathing gets deeper, colour flushes his cheeks, and when he comes it’s nearly beautiful, his hands gripping the sides of the chair, his mouth half-opened, eyes clouding over. 

John swallows with some difficulty, takes Mycroft’s glass off the side table and has a drink quickly. It’s probably hundred year old whiskey or something hideously expensive like that, but it burns comfortably going down, tingles his tongue and lips. 

Mycroft tucks himself back in, and John goes to find his trousers. He gets his pants back on, his socks, sits down to tie his shoelaces. 

Mycroft shifts on his chair. His fingers tap on the armrests. “John...” He sounds weary, “You are aware we cannot do this again.” 

He’s right. It would be stupid to. There’s no reason to, except the obvious, of course. John nods. 

He lets himself out.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. October 7th, 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this from _the British Library!_ I feel so posh *g*

 

 

 

John hasn’t even looked at the memory stick yet. Hasn’t talked to Mary since moving out. Some part of him wonders how much he ever loved her. 

Sherlock improves daily, and the staff are getting tired enough of his antics that he‘ll be coming home soon, John thinks. 

The bruises between his legs have mostly faded; there are only some mottled spots of colour left now. Occasionally his mind replays what happened. When he’s treating patients. When he’s in Sherlock’s hospital room, looking at his sleeping form. When he comes back to Baker Street, walks up those dark stairs alone. 

_Mycroft biting his thighs, hard enough to make him groan._

John gets himself off a couple times remembering, it’s not as if he has much else to fantasise about. Or much else he can stand to think about, really. 

It’s getting dark earlier every day, and the rain is not helping much. It’s a series of dreary days, long shifts at the surgery, too. John’s still not used to Baker Street, it feels too quiet. Too lonely. He hates running into Mary at work and the hollow anger he feels whenever he sees her face. 

So he picks up a bottle some nights after coming from Sherlock’s hospital room, and drinks, alone. Sometimes he doesn’t fall asleep even then, goes to work with bleary, sandpaper eyes and a throbbing headache. Either no one notices or they’re too polite to say anything. Even Sherlock doesn’t say a word. 

John feels as if he’s in a haze, a perpetual motion machine of night and day, work and hospital, all blurring together under fake neon light. John Watson, husband. Friend. _Fucking failure on all regards._

It’s a Tuesday night when he sees Mycroft again. 

John’s on his way home, more or less. He’s sitting on a bench two streets from the hospital, holding a bottle like a vagrant and watching the rain mist orange under a lit streetlight. Maybe he’s waiting for someone to come and try to beat him up; he’s not sure, anymore. His hair is getting wet, the rain soaking coolly through his jacket. 

There’s a silhouette of a man under an umbrella, walking closer. He knows who it is from a hundred paces away. 

John shows him the bottle in greeting. “I’m not drunk.” He hasn’t even opened it yet. He’s not out of control; he’s doesn’t need Mycroft to come and _rescue_ him.

Mycroft nods. “I know.” He reaches into his pocket, calmly takes a cigarette, and cups it in his hand to light it. Then sighs softly when the first inhale hits. 

John has heard him make that sound before. Stupid, what he remembers. He can’t take his eyes off of Mycroft now that he’s here. It’s hypnotic, watching his cheeks hollow slightly as he sucks, and then the mist of smoke fade between his lips, and curl into the sky. 

Mycroft smokes the entire cigarette before a black car pulls up at the kerb, and he inclines his head. “Baker Street?” 

John gets up stiffly, and follows him. He’s been forgetting to eat, as well. There’s no reason to cook now that Sherlock isn’t home. He sags down on the low seat, and closes the car door behind him. There’s a dark partition between them and the driver. Mycroft shakes his umbrella out before closing it, sits on the other side, and carefully places it on the ground. The car leaves. 

Mycroft smells like cigarette smoke and rain, acrid and light. 

John’s not even sure what he wants. Just to feel something. Be something. He reaches out his hand, and puts it on Mycroft’s thigh. Moves his thumb back and forth across the rough, woollen fabric of Mycroft’s trousers. He’s not expecting much.

Mycroft puts his hand over his. It’s warmer than his own. John thinks he’ll take his hand and put it aside, that he’ll look at him, cold and disapproving, and laugh for even presuming. 

But he moves it to the middle, instead. 

John squeezes him through his trousers. “I thought this was a bad idea?” His voice feels like it belongs to someone else. 

Mycroft sighs. “It is.” But he leans back. And he lets him. 

John shifts closer, feels Mycroft grow hard under his hand. There are waves of warmth coming off of Mycroft’s thighs. John trails his nails over his legs to see him react. 

It’s raining harder now, not showing much through the darkened windows other than the vague shapes of other cars and some lit up buildings while they drive past. 

Mycroft unbuttons his trousers, pushes his pants down, and John takes his cock in his hand. It feels hot and alive under his chilled fingers. He pushes his thumb to the head, touches the small slit. Mycroft’s foreskin moves under his hand, less as he gets fully hard. John watches Mycroft’s reaction. He wonders about tasting him. He’s not sure how much of a blowjob he can give in here, while they’re driving, but he can try. Maybe just lean over, and take him into his mouth like that. “What do you want?” 

Mycroft’s breath hitches. John repeats what he just did, a little twist with his wrist, _oh, this is great, making him squirm._ “Whatever you wish to do, John.”

John looks down. He remembers the taste perfectly well, especially now that he can smell him, too. His mouth waters. The driver takes a turn, abruptly enough that John shifts forwards. Mycroft steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, then leaves it there. John doesn’t mind the feeling. It’s solid. 

So why not? John leans down over Mycroft’s lap, takes his cock in his hand, and puts his lips to it. Mycroft shifts a little under his touch. Breathes audibly. John licks the ridge gently, re-learns the shape of it with his tongue. 

Mycroft’s probably looking at him, John thinks darkly. _Enjoying the show._ He takes the smooth weight of it between his lips, and sucks. When the car suddenly swerves, it’s only Mycroft’s grip on his shoulder that prevents him from sliding away. 

John sucks him deeper, but then the driver brakes and he moves sideways with the motion, slipping off the seat, and he has to let him pop out of his mouth. He’s not sure that he’s any good, like this, trying to manoeuvre on the backseat. His coordination is off. John sits up. “Not doing that while we’re driving.” 

To his surprise, Mycroft is smiling a little. “Perhaps that would be wise.” 

It’s a stupid idea, this, and it’s not even all that sexy, John thinks. He’s beyond tired. But he’s hard regardless, and it’s just easy, isn’t it, like this. Neither of them have to pretend. John presses his hand to his own trousers.

Mycroft sees and says, “You can touch yourself as well, John.” His voice sounds hushed. 

_All right._ John unzips his trousers. Pushes them down, and his pants as well. He takes himself in hand. It’s gratifying to know that Mycroft at least is getting off on this, John thinks. That he can stand to look at him. That he enjoys it.

Mycroft’s looking at him, tracing his long fingers over his own thigh in a move that seems so natural that he must have done it hundreds of times before. That that is how he touches himself. John runs his hand over himself, cups his balls, and moves them in his hand. It is fairly dark, but he can see Mycroft well enough, his pale hand wrapped around himself, his legs spread open a little. 

John can imagine seeing this with Mycroft sitting on a leather sofa, dressed in a perfect suit as he is now, only his head thrown back in ecstasy. Eyes closed, just giving himself over to it, milking himself dry. _Maybe thinking of him._ He speeds it up, just a little harder, a little more to get the edge off, then slows down. 

Mycroft is watching him intently. 

John splays his legs open as well, and puts a knee against the leather seat. He presses his fingertips to his stomach, moves them to the base of his cock, it rises in anticipation, and then stops. 

It makes Mycroft lean forward a little, so John does it again. Jerks himself off in earnest now, makes his hand move fast enough that it hitches his breath, then stops. He looks at Mycroft’s hands. His fingers, still pressed against his thigh. He doesn’t want to ask, but he doesn’t have to. Mycroft reaches out. 

John lets go of himself, and Mycroft moves closer. He carefully wraps his hand around him and moves it, jerks him off slowly. John lets his arms fall to his side. Leans back in increments as Mycroft’s hand speeds up. The car window is cold and hard against the back of his head. The hollows of his knees are sweating. He can see his own stomach rise up and down. John’s hidden in the dark, but not completely. He has Mycroft’s eyes on him, not missing a thing, probably. 

Mycroft’s breathing shallowly; John can feel the whispers of it on his face. He grabs a fistful of his coat, holds on to it, lets Mycroft draw it out of him with quicker and quicker pulls. Breathes while Mycroft manipulates him. Then comes, stutters into his hands with a gasp.

Mycroft moves back and goes straight to touching himself. He palms his cock; John gets to see him speed up his hand, close his eyes and _reach_ for it, his mouth open, muscles tense. It doesn’t take long either. He’s silent, but he shivers, come striping his hand.

John feels weak now, a bit of tightness back in his throat. Mycroft opens his eyes and looks at him curiously, after. 

John looks away. 

They’re parked at Baker Street.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. October 15th, 2014

 

 

 

Sherlock comes back home from the hospital. There’s still a lot he can’t do without being in pain, so he’s either lying on the sofa in a haze of painkillers, or stumbling through the living room in a dressing gown, about to tear his stitches out out of sheer boredom and the urge to move. 

It’s another adjustment, to have him back in the flat. It’s suddenly full somehow. John feels observed and ignored, frustrated and pleased, sometimes still startled, to see Sherlock sitting there. They haven’t lived together in three years, and John had forgotten some of it, stupid things like the way he spreads an array of papers wherever he goes, and how he sometimes hums and he wiggles his toes when he’s in his mind palace. How he bites his pens. Things that seem familiar and foreign at once now that he sees them again. 

Some nights Sherlock doesn’t sleep at all, just paces and makes the floorboards creak loudly enough for John to mentally follow him, around and around. Occasionally when he wakes up and it’s completely quiet, he has the terrifying sense that Sherlock will be gone. That it’ll all have been his imagination.

When Sherlock says ‘thank you’ absent-mindedly, John’s fingers strain around his cup of tea, and he remembers that he still doesn’t have a clue as to what Sherlock even did, in those two years. _Who it was that he learned to say ‘thank you’ to._

John still wants to shake him sometimes. Demand to know how Sherlock _could_ , leave him, leave what they were and had. But then he remembers himself, and knows that that’s simply because this is not the same to Sherlock as it is to him. He was ready to do this for the rest of his life, wasn’t he, while to Sherlock he was, what, a convenient flatmate? He didn’t even seem convinced they were very good friends. 

So it’s not the same as it was before. It can’t be. 

Sherlock still regularly mentions Mary, as if that’s an at all normal thing to do. They keep in touch, apparently. John gets annoyed every time he does it, but Sherlock keeps on giving him updates on how far along she is, and how she’s feeling. Sherlock acts as if he fully expects them to get back together too, sooner rather than later. And whenever John argues that they’re really, really not; he says, “But you’re married,” in that slightly puzzled way, as if he can’t fathom that their vows did not include this. “She’s what you want, John.”

Instead of punching him, John takes a lot of walks. He wonders if he should maybe ask Sherlock if he needs to move out, but then he can’t make himself say it. He doesn’t want to leave, after all. _Never again._ He’ll stay for as long as Sherlock will have him, and if he’s being honest, probably after that, too. 

John holds out for a whole week before he texts Mycroft during his lunch break at work. They didn’t agree on anything, last time. He simply got out of the car, and that was it. 

Mycroft can refuse, obviously. He probably will. John sticks his phone back into his pocket, and tells himself that he won’t be bothered if he doesn’t answer at all, but he does, near-immediately, “Will send a car at 8pm. MH” Apparently, he didn’t even have to think about it. 

It plays on John’s mind all afternoon, like a prickle on the back of his spine. He goes home, eats with Sherlock, says he’s going for a walk, then intercepts the black car before it turns into Baker Street. 

The ride over is slow, and John firmly doesn’t allow himself to think about what he’s even doing, arranging a meeting like this. He has no illusions as to what is going to happen, after all. _Neither does Mycroft, most likely._

The driver brings him to a stately row of houses. John gets out, and just as he wants to ring the bell, Anthea opens the door. John moves back immediately, but all she does is give him a bland smile, and move past him. She’s carrying an impressive pile of forms and, as always, seems utterly uninterested in him. She leaves the door open. 

Right in the hallway is Mycroft as well, still hanging up his coat. He smiles briefly. “I apologise, John, we got in later than expected. Turbulence.” He seems not too fond of the concept. 

“You were flying?” John closes the door behind him. It has an impressive weight to it. 

“Commercial airline, ghastly.” 

“If it’s not a good time...” _It’s not like it’s urgent, is it._ Mycroft does look worn-out. His suit is wrinkled. Sherlock would probably be able to tell exactly where he’s been from that alone, John thinks.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, we were simply delayed.” Mycroft’s face seems softer than his tone would suggest. 

John feels odd, under his gaze. 

Mycroft nods towards a door, “There are drinks in the living room.”

“What, you don’t have a butler?” John follows him, through the hallway, into a room that looks exactly the way John would have imagined it. Grand. Filled with antiques. Barely lived in.

“No. I find them to be overly intrusive.” 

John wonders if that’s true, or if it is some sort of subtle warning that the whole place has cameras or something. _Probably both, knowing Mycroft._ John accepts a drink from him, sits down on a chair that creaks uncomfortably whenever he moves, and sips it without tasting it much, a vague sense of arousal pressing at him. There’s a grandfather clock ticking somewhere. 

Mycroft looks at him evenly. “How have you been?” 

John doesn’t know why that question irritates him that much, but it does. People keep on asking him how he’s _feeling_ , as if they have any idea. As if he has. Usually he replies with how Sherlock is doing, but Mycroft knows that well enough himself. It’s reminding him of his therapist’s office, this. The silent stare. “Not here to talk about that, am I.” 

Mycroft nods slowly. “I see.” He puts his glass aside, and gets up again. “Come.”

John downs his drink, and follows him back to the hallway. He wonders if he disappointed him in some way. But no, it’s Mycroft; he was just being polite even asking. 

Mycroft leads him up the stairs, but still John’s somewhat taken aback when he opens the door to a bedroom. It’s all wood and dark tones. Stately, but at least it looks more lived in than the rooms downstairs. There’s a pile of books on one of the nightstands, something in Russian, Descartes in French, a pair of reading glasses. The other side is completely empty. 

_This is Mycroft’s own bed._

“Or would you prefer the hallway? Perhaps a suitable alley somewhere?” Mycroft sounds irritated. 

John turns uncomfortably. He gets his point, he does, but in Mycroft’s own bed, that’s kind of personal, isn’t it? It’s always been fast, heat of the moment, thickly clouded with grief and anger and sadness and he’s not sure if he wants to... 

John’s throat feels tight, but so does his fly. His body doesn’t want to go. His mind doesn’t, either. So what the hell, _if he can do it in the back of a car then he can do it on a bed._

“John...” Mycroft frowns at him. He’s reading him, probably, the tension in his chest, the way he is somewhat aroused regardless. 

There’s so much that he wants, and he’s never, ever going to get it. And then here he is, being offered this and he’s not sure that he can take it, because what, it’s too much? John takes a breath, “Yeah, no, here’s fine.”

He reaches out, and recklessly touches Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft looks down at it, but doesn’t comment. _He’s not going to object,_ John thinks with something like astonishment. Right. He undoes the first button of Mycroft’s waistcoat, feeling kind of uncomfortable. The second, expecting to be stopped at any moment, but Mycroft just looks at him and lets him. 

John’s never undressed a guy, not like this anyway. By the time he reaches the fifth button and it falls open, Mycroft seems to have come to a conclusion of some sort because he loosens his tie, and puts it to the side, then starts on his shirt buttons. _Thank God._ John steps back and starts on his own shirt, quickly puts it to the side.

Mycroft hangs his suit jacket over a chair. Then his waistcoat, followed by his shirt. He looks different, suddenly half-undressed. He’s skinnier than John would have imagined. His chest has a dusting of hair. 

Mycroft takes off his shoes, and puts them away neatly. Puts his socks on top, then unbuttons his trousers. The slope of his back is striking as he pushes the elastic of his pants over his hips, and steps out of them. John looks at him from the corner of his eye. _Mycroft’s good-looking, really._ He doesn’t know why that would surprise him. All long, pale limbs, a slight belly, his already familiar cock slightly filled out. 

John gets rid of his own trousers and pants; he is not nearly as careful with folding them, just throws it all on a pile by the foot of the bed. He’s not terribly concerned with being naked, he knows he’s not much to look at, but they’re not here for looking, are they. Still it takes more than he thought it would, to walk up to Mycroft like this. 

He knows he doesn’t imagine the shiver going through Mycroft’s body the second before he puts his hand on his hip. They’re standing, looking at each other, and all John can think is ‘this is where we kiss.’ 

Which is ridiculous, obviously. 

Instead he steps close enough for his stomach to bump into the warm softness of Mycroft’s cock, and their chests to touch. It’s still startling, all that bare skin. He’s not sure he likes it, but they’re this far now, so. John puts his hands to Mycroft’s back, gets used to the curve of Mycroft’s arse leading up to a bony spine, the faint indents of his ribs, his shoulder blades. Then closes his eyes, takes a breath, and presses his mouth to the warm, smooth skin of Mycroft’s shoulder.

If Mycroft thinks that’s bizarre he doesn’t show it. He puts his hands on him as well, merely holds him, although John can feel him swallow. 

John spreads his hands out, repeats the same motion, up and down, and he can feel Mycroft’s erection filling out and softly pressing against his belly. He’s surprised by how much that turns him on, the _evidence_ of it. The gentle push is like a wave of heat curling through his groin every time it touches him, getting him hard as well. John presses his erection to Mycroft’s leg and feels his answering intake of breath. John dares to open his eyes. He’s looking straight at Mycroft’s collar bone. He looks up, and Mycroft licks his lips in a fast, unconscious gesture.

John’s mouth feels dry, all of a sudden. He wants to kiss him. Fuck, he wants to. Pull his head down and taste those thin lips, feel them open under his, push his hand through his hair and feel him moan into his mouth. But no. John breaks their eye contact, then presses his mouth to the curve between Mycroft’s shoulder and neck and sucks there, enough to make Mycroft’s breath hitch. He moves towards Mycroft’s throat, and licks over his Adam’s apple, sucks open-mouthed kisses right below it. He bites softly, while Mycroft holds his head back and just breathes, his hands on John’s back now, holding on to his shoulders. 

John sucks right below Mycroft’s ear, lightly nips his neck with his teeth. His hands travel over Mycroft’s chest, feel the springy hair under his fingers. He traces over a nipple almost accidentally, no curve of a breast to warn him it would be there. Mycroft tenses, so John does it again. He teases his fingertips over his nipples in an irregular pattern, touches them until they peak. He licks his neck, sucks there, only stops when he realises he’s going to leave marks.

Mycroft seems to be somewhat sensitive there, so why not, John leans down and traces his tongue over one of his nipples. It tastes a little sharp, like salt, but Mycroft’s soft “ah!” makes it worth it. It feels much smaller than a women’s, barely there really, and the hair around it is coarse to his lips. John lightly sucks it, flicks his tongue over it, and pinches the other one between his fingers at the same time. Mycroft pushes his erection forwards in response, so John does it again. Then switches sides, traces his nails over the small, wet nipples, plays with them, and looks up, somewhat pleased with himself when he sees Mycroft’s lightly flushed face. 

Mycroft answers his look, and cautiously moves his hips against him. John only now realises that Mycroft has barely done anything so far. He probably doesn’t want to spook him, which is well, fine, but he’s not made out of glass. He knows what he’s doing, and that drag of hot flesh over his stomach is delicious. John pushes his own cock to Mycroft’s in response. Under it, really- Mycroft opens his legs a little, and then it slides right between them, under his balls. It’s just warm flesh there, the tunnel of his thighs, but John moves back and pushes forward before he realises what he’s simulating, and he stills. 

But Mycroft puts his hands on John’s hips, and pulls him in again. _Oh yes._ That feels great. John moves his hips back and forth and his cock doesn’t slide so much as just pushes between Mycroft’s thighs, occasionally brushes his balls, the crinkle of his pubes, while Mycroft’s cock determinately pokes into his stomach at every go. 

_This shouldn’t be as good as it is._ It’s only a hint of fucking, the idea of it, but John can feel it sit hot in his stomach. 

Especially when Mycroft spreads his hands over John’s arse and pulls him in. Their hips press together as close as they’ll go, and god, _to have long, strong fingers kneading his arse..._ John catches his breath, face hidden in the crook of Mycroft’s neck. 

John remembers the first time. The hint of that, too. He’d wanted... 

Mycroft says, near his ear, “Would you like to _fuck_ me now, John?” His voice is warm; he knows exactly what he’s doing. John’s cock moves a little between Mycroft’s thighs at the words alone. They both know the answer is ‘absolutely.’ 

“Yes,” John manages to sound calm about it. _In control._

Mycroft nods, lets go of him and walks to his nightstand. He takes a small black bottle of lube and a condom, then looks at him. 

_Right, it would be stupid not to do this on the bed._ John walks over and sits down. 

“You know how?” Mycroft sounds stern. As if he won’t let him anywhere near himself without some credentials. 

John accepts the lube. “I am a doctor.”

Mycroft lies down next to him. “Yet none of my prostate exams have ever been quite satisfactory.”

John looks at him, and half-laughs at how grumpy he sounds. _Is that nerves, too?_ He has no illusions that he’s anything stellar at this, Mycroft’s right that he hasn’t done it without a latex glove involved in years. And then only women. But he knows how just fine. He puts just a little lube on his finger, leans down, and licks a long stripe from Mycroft’s knee to his thigh, up to his cock. Mycroft lets his legs fall open. 

John presses his finger to his entrance, and leans over at the same time to brush his lips over Mycroft’s knee. Then bites it, gently. He can feel Mycroft relaxing under his hands, so presses his finger in, a little. Then leaves a trail of small, red bruises and teeth marks all the way to Mycroft’s hip bone, while he moves his slick finger carefully in and out. 

He takes more lube, then uses two fingers. Mycroft pushes down on them, so John curls them up towards the prostate and rubs circles over it while he leans down to suck Mycroft’s cock into his mouth. He thinks he’s doing pretty well, especially when Mycroft actually groans, out loud. 

John’s fingers start cramping after a while, _that really is tight,_ so he slides them out, a bit more lube, and then three. It’s harder to get them in, so he moves up and sucks one of Mycroft’s nipples into his mouth again, and tries to push them in deep enough to hit his prostate. Mycroft arches his back and breathes out shakily when he does. John looks at him. Mycroft’s eyes are closed, chest moving up and down with every breath, a bit of a flush spread from his cheeks to his chest now, his cock hard on his belly. It’s surprising to see him like this, actually. Aroused. Needy. 

John’s own erection is mostly neglected, but when he presses it against Mycroft’s leg, Mycroft responds by opening his eyes. “That’s enough.” He actually sounds a little out of breath, which is kind of pleasing, John thinks. He slips his fingers out. 

“Do you want to...” Mycroft nods, takes the condom from the nightstand and hands it to him, then turns around. 

_Which is..._ John stills. He’d thought it would be easier like this too, for some reason. Maybe just because he’d imagined it like that, but now he’s not so sure. There’s a faint sprinkling of freckles all over Mycroft’s shoulders and back. Besides that he’s very pale. John suddenly wonders how many people know that about him. _How many have seen him, like this. Waiting._

He forces himself to look away. 

He tries to open the condom wrapper, but his fingers are still awkwardly slippery with lube, so he gives up and uses his teeth to hold it and tear it open. John rolls it over his cock, that part’s easy, then shuffles forward. It’s only when his cock brushes Mycroft’s arse that he seriously considers what he’s about to do. He knows it’s hardly sexy, but he can’t help but speak, he doesn’t want to hurt him, “If it’s not good, tell me, right?”

“Mm,” Mycroft replies evenly, as if he’s disappointed already. As if he’s saying ‘you’d better _make_ it good, or I’ll regret this’. 

John pushes his arse cheeks apart a bit, takes his cock in his hand, and lines it up. _Right._ He takes some more lube, then pushes in awkwardly. It’s nerve-wracking, for a moment. It takes more force that he would have thought. Once he’s past the ring of muscle it’s easier, especially when Mycroft moves back, and works himself a little deeper, seems to at least not find it horrible. John reaches around, and puts his hand on Mycroft’s cock. It’s gone mostly soft, he probably didn’t do this as well as he should have, John thinks. 

He moves a little, just tilts his hips a bit back and forth, and uses his hand at the same time. He tries to change the angle, he has an idea of where he should hit of course, and it’s rather obvious when he manages it. Mycroft’s quick exhale, and the way he pushes himself back against him straight away, so John does it again, _right there, okay._

John’s hand leaves Mycroft’s cock, he needs both of them on his hips for this, pulling him in, holding him steady. And Mycroft becomes less cautious by far, just moves back and forth to meet him. John’s hipbones hit Mycroft’s arse roughly, his cock peeks out and then glides back in, again and again. John’s legs start straining a bit, sweat starts stinging his neck and prickling in the hollow of his back, but it feels good, the searching, building rhythm of it. Mycroft can carry his weight just fine when he leans down more, when he goes harder, just gives it back to him, better and better. The bed creaks under them. 

John reaches around again and finds Mycroft half-interested now, sighing when he touches his cock, a soft groan when he starts jerking him off. So John pulls back a little bit, moves in short, small strokes. He does the same with his hand, and he can feel Mycroft trembling under him, _oh, that’s great._

John goes a little deeper, mixes it up with a longer stroke on Mycroft’s cock, all the way from his balls to the tip and back again. He presses himself in like that as well, and at Mycroft’s “aaah!” John does it again, a long, hard stroke. Mycroft moves himself against him, and John pushes in, speeds it up, his hand as well. He wants to get closer, he leans in more with every stroke, plasters himself to Mycroft’s back, but suddenly he overbalances because Mycroft crashes down, falls on his belly, with John stumbling on top of him.

“Oh!” John grimaces. “Okay?”

“Yes!” Mycroft says with an impatient move of his hips. He has his head in the pillows, his cheeks are flushed to his ears, and his tone is urgent. He’s clearly not asking him to stop, so John keeps on moving, a bit lopsided because his hand is still on Mycroft’s cock, trapped underneath their hips now. Mycroft moves so John can let go, then tangles their fingers together and brusquely pulls his hand higher. John puts his other hand to his side and Mycroft takes that, too. And _right, that works,_ now he can lean fully over his back, move back and forth, a slide of skin on skin. 

John can feel the way Mycroft is pushing his arse up, the strong grip he has on his hands. He can feel that he’s rutting himself against the mattress with every stroke, he’s _getting off on this,_ and it’s startlingly hot. John tries to hit his prostate on every thrust, leans down and licks Mycroft’s back, bites his shoulder, sucks there, he doesn’t even know what he’s doing besides moving whichever way feels good, _better, faster._ And when he hits it just right he can actually feel it happening, Mycroft’s arse spasming around his cock, the way he suddenly tenses. 

John isn’t that far behind. He feels the delicious, wet slide into Mycroft’s arse, pushes into him greedily. He snaps his hips a couple times, works up to it, and comes. He sags on top of Mycroft. His legs feel like jelly, his body sweaty, still prickling with waves of delight. He knows that he’s pushing him down with his weight, and that he can’t stay like that too long, but just a second... 

Then he pulls his cock out, and moves to the side and lies there, heart still pounding. 

Mycroft turns around as well. There’s a crease on his face from where the pillow was. He left a wet spot on the mattress, which he delicately manoeuvres around. John takes the condom off, ties it in a knot, and puts it to the side.

“Well, that was...” John shakes his head and breathes out slowly. He doesn’t really have the words for it.

Mycroft nods, briefly. Besides that he keeps quiet. His face is still flushed. He looks ruined, really. Stretched out on the bed. Cock lying limp against his thigh. 

_Bloody hell._ Should have shagged Mycroft from the beginning, it might have solved a whole host of problems, John thinks. 

He sits up, still a little woozy from it all, stands, and starts gathering his clothes. He knows he probably smells like sex, but it’s not like he can shower here. Sherlock will just have to be non-intrusive for once, John thinks. _Although, fat chance of that happening._ He smiles. 

Mycroft sits up, and moves off the bed as well. He sighs, then speaks, casually, as if he’s not stark naked right now, as if they didn’t just _fuck._ “Have you ever actually asked him, John?”

John’s hands still on his shirt. Mycroft can read him well enough to know that he was thinking of Sherlock. _Of course_ he can, but fuck him for even bringing it up. What, does he think this is appropriate after-sex conversation? _Hit on my brother lately?_

And no, there’s nothing to ask. Sherlock told him right when they met. Kept on telling him, time after time. Married to his work. Not his area. Not interested. “He doesn’t want that,” John says tetchily. _And it’s about time he respects it, too._ Friendship is what Sherlock offers, and it’s the best and brightest he has ever had, so it’s well time that he stops longing for more. It’s unfair to both of them. 

“Yet he cares for you greatly.” Mycroft offers. 

John knows it’s true; Sherlock does care for him. Just not the way other people care for each other. There’s a limit to Sherlock, to what you can expect him to do. He doesn’t reply, just focuses on getting into his trousers. 

“John, if we keep on meeting, he will find out eventually.” Mycroft has found a dressing gown somewhere. It’s a deep, dark red. He’s tying it neatly. “You must consider whether you are willing to face that.” 

“Yeah.” John knows he’s right. He puts on his shoes, and grabs his jacket. 

Mycroft doesn’t say anything more, and John leaves. 

He closes the door behind him with a firm bang. Gets a ride back from the patiently waiting chauffeur, and walks the last bit. His muscles are pleasantly sore, his body still singing with what he just did, but his mind is spinning and he feels like shit. _Mycroft’s right._ What are they even _doing_?

John tenses walking up the stairs, but Sherlock’s bedroom door is closed and the lights are off. He’s more relieved than he thought he would be, something hard and sharp playing in his chest. He thinks about it all through a shower. Does he want Sherlock to find out? Does he genuinely want to risk that, just for sex? It’s been good, with Mycroft, surprisingly amazing really. _But._

What he actually wants is here, isn’t it? Baker Street. To run around London with Sherlock, to have ridiculous adventures and blog about it later. To sit in his chair, eat take-away and laugh. That’s it. It’s that simple. So if he has to trade sex for Sherlock, well, he made that deal once, he can do it again. More than that, he should. 

So John goes upstairs, and sits on his bed. His back straight, knees locked tight. He texts. “This stops today. JW”

The reply takes a couple minutes this time, but when it comes it’s simple. “Understood. MH” 

John lies back, closes his eyes, and tries to feel good about it. It is the right decision, he knows it is. But his body is still replaying the memory of Mycroft underneath him. What it was like, doing something he’s been wanting to do for years and years but never had the guts to before tonight. 

He’ll forget about it, John thinks. 

_He will._

 

 

 

 

 


	6. December 25th, 2014

 

 

 

John doesn’t see Mycroft again for nearly two months. 

He comes by when he’s not there, John knows. Sometimes there’s a hint of his cologne left and Sherlock angrily playing the violin. A barely touched cup of tea. Once, a board game that Sherlock quickly pushes under the sofa when John walks in. 

John tries not to linger on it. It’s nothing, really, what happened, just sex. Still he does think about it. Maybe it’s because the more time goes by, the more inconceivable it seems that Mycroft really did touch him. That he really went down on his knees and sucked him off so slowly. That he got undressed and let John fuck him, on his own bed. It feels like a lie already, some self-indulgent fantasy. 

Sherlock takes a couple of cases, they run around London chasing criminals and being clever and John can feel himself unwinding, at least a little bit. It’s not over yet, he knows. Mary is getting bigger every time he sees her. 

John makes some noise about getting divorce papers, and maybe a lawyer, but it’s easier to let it be, for now. Not to deal with it yet. 

John knows that Sherlock is looking into Mary’s past, he even suspects that Mycroft is involved with that, too, at least if it’s serious. But he’d made himself pretty clear on not wanting to hear another word about it, so Sherlock has been quiet. 

Until the day that John comes home from work, and he can hear Mycroft’s voice upstairs. He thinks about turning around, going for a walk, but they probably already know he’s there, so... Both of them look up as John comes in. It feels more like a memory than the present, to see Mycroft sitting there, talking to Sherlock. 

Sherlock looks agitated. “You’re going to have to go back to Mary.” 

_What?_ John blinks. “Um. No, I’m not.”

Mycroft tilts his head, then says, “I’m sorry, but you will have to, John.”

“Yeah, not you, too.” John says it before he’s thought about it, and it comes out sharper than he’d meant it. Hurt. 

Mycroft’s face remains impassive. He says, “We long suspected that she has ties to Jim Moriarty, and now we have confirmation.” 

“He’s alive.” Sherlock adds, steepling his hands in front of his face and grinning, and John sits down. _Fuck._

They have a plan. But hearing what he’ll have to do, John can feel the ground sink away underneath him. He doesn’t want to make up with Mary. He’s not sure that he can lie to her, not that well. They’re banking on the fact that she wants to be forgiven. That she wants John back, and Sherlock to get the information from Magnussen, but they can’t be sure. 

John writes the words down and says them out loud to himself. Tries to make them sound true. Still he feels like an enormous fraud, and in the days leading up to Christmas he has nightmares again, brutal ones that leave him gasping for air. 

He goes through with it, though. Moves past Sherlock’s lovely mum and dad, gives a quick nod to Mycroft, and goes to lie to Mary, goes along to threaten Magnussen, too. And then the Appledore vaults aren’t real, and their whole plan falls to bits. Until the very last second, John thinks that Sherlock will come up with something. That it’ll all have been some elaborate ruse, that there is a way out. 

Right up until Sherlock pulls the trigger.

John wants to scream at him, wants to tell him that this can’t be worth it, nothing can, but instead he’s just here to hear Sherlock stick to his story until the end. “Tell Mary she’s safe, now.” _Pretend I did it for her._ Shoot a man in cold blood. 

John can do nothing but watch as they push Sherlock down to the ground, and take him away. There’s nothing he can do to stop it. Mycroft meets his eyes, absolute terror written in them. 

_Nothing._

John stays and looks at the empty body of Magnussen, his head blown to bits, for longer than he probably should. He can see Mycroft moving around the edges as well, face pale and drawn, barking orders into a phone, ordering things and people around. Eventually they take Magnussen’s body, scrape his brain matter of the floor, and John gets a ride from some unmarked government car, back to Baker Street. 

He’s never felt heavier walking up those stairs.

In the weeks after Sherlock’s death, John didn’t feel a thing. It was all a mist of dread, as if nothing could reach him anymore. But this, the misery of this particular moment, he’s getting in perfect detail. He feels physically dirty. He strips, leaves his clothes on the floor, stands under the shower spray. He still feels the ghost of Magnussen’s cold, sweaty hands on his face when he gets out. 

John takes a bottle of whiskey, sits down in his chair, and fills a glass methodically, only to drink it in a couple of gulps. Fills it again, drinks it slower. 

The doorbell rings, but he doesn’t get up. 

There’s a mumble of conversation downstairs, Mrs. Hudson, and then hesitant footsteps on the stairs. John is expecting Lestrade, here to be shocked and commiserate, perhaps. Anthea, with some instructions on how they’re going to deal with this. But no. 

Mycroft. 

He looks awful. 

“You’re going to fix this.” John says. It’s not a question. 

Mycroft lowers himself into Sherlock’s chair slowly. His voice is hoarse. “That would depend on your definition of fixing it.”

Sherlock has killed someone powerful and influential, surrounded by dozens of witnesses. There are limits to what even Mycroft can cover up. Yet he will, John thinks, he must. “Keep him out of prison.”

Mycroft nods. “I will attempt to.” 

“Was it the first time?” John doesn’t know, not really. Only that Sherlock never used to shoot to kill. _Or shoot at all._

“Yes.” Mycroft sighs. “I believe so.” 

Neither of them say that they’ve killed many more. And still, or maybe exactly because of that, John hates that Sherlock did, and he suspects Mycroft does, too. _Funny what he would spare another from, yet do himself in an instant._

Mycroft puts his hand to his head and massages his temples. He doesn’t seem to have much to say. John gets up, takes a glass from the kitchen, and pours it for him. Then has another himself. 

There are bells ringing outside, cheerily and insistently. It takes a while before John makes the connection and realises it’s Christmas, still. It seems like days ago already. _A lifetime._

John drinks. 

He’s getting drunk fast, but nowhere near fast enough for the shot to stop ringing in his ears. For the spatter that used to be Magnussen’s head to disappear. For Sherlock’s face, his look of utter despair, to leave from behind his eyelids.

They empty the bottle between them in less than half an hour, and that time John spends looking at Mycroft, too. He remembers his voice, ordering his men not to shoot Sherlock. 

John doesn’t flatter himself into thinking Mycroft wants him.

But when they’ve both emptied their glasses he gets up, unsteadily, and says, “Come.” Because Mycroft won’t say no, John thinks. _Not tonight. Not when he looks like he needs it just as much as he does._

And he’s right. Mycroft gets up slowly, and follows him up the stairs, to his bedroom. 

It’s cold up here. Shaded in frosty, midnight light. John only turns on the bedside lamp, still it reveals how banal it is, the one room that is his own. How beige his bedcovers and walls are, how utterly boring he truly is when Sherlock isn’t there to fill up the spaces. 

Mycroft closes the door behind him carefully. There’s no lock. 

John doesn’t bother with a soft touch, or a sexual one. He just steps close to Mycroft and knots his fingers into the fabric at his back. Presses his face to the side of Mycroft’s neck, to the cool, soft skin of his cheek. Blinks away the stinging of his eyes, the hitch in his breath, glad that Mycroft can’t see him, glad that this is in the half-dark. 

Mycroft’s arms fall around him hesitantly. 

John breathes in the scent of Mycroft’s shirt, dry cleaning and cologne and sweat. It’s quiet, in the dark. It’s almost as if it isn’t real, John thinks. _It’s just an illusion, this. Some misplaced memory._

He can feel a hot, painful knot in his throat. The room is spinning. John closes his eyes. He knows he needs to let go soon, but he doesn’t. He lets the minutes draw out.

When he leans back eventually, Mycroft releases him only then. One side of John’s face feels hot, having been pressed against him. Mycroft glances at him from the corner of his eyes, confirming if he’s okay, John thinks. Or maybe he can’t look at him fully, either. 

John moves in and presses his lips to Mycroft’s neck, kisses there. Mycroft’s surprised by that, John can feel it but he doesn’t care, he licks a little, tastes the tang of his skin under his lips, and it’s not enough, _it’s never enough._ John’s fingers feel like claws, wanting to grip something that isn’t there. 

He mumbles, quickly and unclear, “Get undressed.” Not even sure if he wants him to, but that’s what they are here for, isn’t it? To _have sex._

Mycroft turns away, his fingers slow on his jacket. 

John walks over to his bed and sits down on it heavily. He’s never had anyone up here, he remembers, vaguely. He’s never shared this room with anyone. This room of joy, and aching pain. _This room of wanting things named Sherlock._

John is only wearing a frayed t-shirt, loose bottoms and a jumper, still his arms feel heavy when he pulls it over his head. He remembers it feeling so useless, for a while, always getting dressed and undressed. Putting on layers upon layers, then taking them off again, and nothing that happened in between. He hated his clothes for never getting dirty. Liked it better when they were spattered with antiseptic and blood. 

Mycroft has found the only chair in John’s room and is hanging his clothes over it as he takes them off. He’s a shade of dark, slowly revealing flashes of pale shoulders, his middle, his arse. John hunches over in the freezing cold as the chill moves from his feet to his legs, making them hurt, then numb. Mycroft’s as tall and thin and regal as John remembers, but something else altogether as well. Something that makes wanting him a certainty. No need to pretend, he thinks again. _Not right now._

When Mycroft’s finished and turns towards him, expression unreadable in the low light, John stands up, walks on aching feet, and presses his lips to his shoulder as if that’s something he does, now. He doesn’t know why he wants to do that so badly. Open his mouth and taste him in little presses of lips and licks, again and again. Mycroft is shivering; his skin hard goose bumps under John’s hands. “You’re cold.” John says, like an idiot.

 _Sherlock would reply ‘Obviously,’_ John thinks.

Mycroft says, “Is there no heating here?” his quiet voice sounding offended at the very thought.

“No.” John’s never cared enough to complain about that. He goes to his bed, peels the blankets back, and gets in, then shuffles over to make room for Mycroft. It’s so pedestrian that for a second John’s sure that this is where Mycroft will draw the line. That he’ll refuse. But Mycroft climbs into his dull, cheap bed with him, and pulls the covers up over his shoulders. John rolls on his side, and just like that they’re touching, from the ridge of his feet to the hairs on his arm. The tip of Mycroft’s nose brushes against his cheek. It’s ice cold. 

John finds Mycroft’s hands, takes them between his and rubs them warm on some vague impulse. Puts Mycroft’s hands to his own stomach, only hazily feeling the searing cold of them, and moves on to Mycroft’s arms. He touches the lines of Mycroft’s shoulders. Rubs them down to his side, his arse and back again. He can see Mycroft’s eyes, dark in the shadows, watching him, so close. 

He should have had more to drink, John thinks. He can feel the effect of it, the distance of drink, some of the warmth as well, probably, he’s not nearly as cold as Mycroft is. But he can’t break away completely, he knows what happened tonight. He knows perfectly well who he’s in bed with, too. 

Mycroft puts his long legs over and in between John’s. John presses his face to Mycroft’s chest, feels the hairs tickle his lips, and they lie there, still. It’s awkward. It’s not sex, it’s nothing that fits within that category, yet John can’t make himself want to let go. He relaxes a bit as it gets warmer, touches his fingers to Mycroft’s cheek, traces the nape of his neck, down the spread of his shoulders. 

Mycroft’s hand trails over his back, hesitates, and then goes over his arse, squeezes gently. John grins into Mycroft’s shoulder. _Now we’re talking._ He leans back enough to see Mycroft’s face; at this distance it’s all vague planes and lines. Mycroft’s nose, his lips, the shadow of his eyelashes. John looks at him and he wants to, again. _Kiss him._

He knows it’s fucking stupid, and too sentimental by far but it’s getting there already, isn’t it, holding onto each other in a bed. Like they even want that, like it’s comforting, while it’s really because neither of them has anything better than this. _Anyone better._

John doesn’t think any more, puts his hand to the side of Mycroft’s face, leans in, and touches his lips to Mycroft’s. His stomach does a tense, hot dance for a second. Then he leans away, because right, _no_. He feels nauseous, all of a sudden. He knows that he’s being weird, Mycroft doesn’t want to be _kissed,_ he wants to be fucked, what is he even...

Then Mycroft’s hand rises up slowly, and settles on his neck. Then there’s the edge of Mycroft’s exhale on his lips, and he’s kissing back, ever so cautiously. 

John’s fingers move over his jaw. Mycroft’s mouth opens underneath him. It’s a slow-motion build-up; they’re both careful until John feels like he’s bursting with it, can’t take it anymore and he moans into Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft’s hands roam over his shoulders in reply, down to his arse, pull him in and John rolls on top of him. He gets hard absurdly fast against Mycroft’s stomach, moves out of their kiss and just breathes shaking breaths into Mycroft’s ear. 

It feels like he’s unlocked this, it’s urgent underneath his skin now; John wants this, he wants... His lips drift to Mycroft’s again, he doesn’t hold back, makes it deep, _tastes_ him. He says “Let me fuck you again,” to Mycroft’s mouth and then doesn’t give him time to reply, just kisses him again, loses himself in it. 

When they break for a breath, Mycroft gasps, soft in a way that goes straight to his cock. “You can. John.” Then pulls him in for a kiss again and John can feel him arch his back as they move together, can feel his cock hot and hard trapped between them and it’s real again, _this is what it was like, this is what I said no to._

John leans away to get to his bedside table, opens the drawer and fumbles so badly he nearly drops the lube. Mycroft pushes the sheets out of the way, and John has to move off him more so he can open his legs, so he can pour lube on his fingers. Then he leans down and kisses Mycroft again, a long, drawn-out kiss where he actually forgets to move his fingers. Where they’re just there, pressing against Mycroft’s arse while they’re kissing, which is probably wrong but John can’t bring himself to care, just feels that spark in his chest and gives into it, makes him sigh with it. 

He finally does push inside of Mycroft, and then it’s a bit of a rush. With Mycroft gasping into his mouth, with his fingers pressing down into hard, tight silkiness, so John has to lean back, tell himself to just focus on this, because he’s drunk and he knows it, because... He watches Mycroft move against the pillows, watches Mycroft’s sighs and feels his arse clench around his fingers. 

He has to move away again to find a condom, and tear it open, and put it on; it feels like it takes forever while Mycroft is following his every move. John can see his mouth is slightly opened, lips red with kissing, cock lying eager against his stomach and says without thinking, “God, I want...” then breaks himself off, immediately ashamed of how _genuine_ that sounded. So he moves down and gives Mycroft’s cock a quick, wet lick; for nothing really. Then uses his fingers again even though the condom is already around his cock now, and Mycroft luckily doesn’t reply, just shivers under John’s fingers. John’s glad, because it doesn’t matter then, right? He can say something like that, hell, he’s had a lot to drink, he’s hard, _there’s some leeway here, there has to be._

After a bit John moves up, slips his fingers out, and, with a look at Mycroft, lines his cock up. Mycroft leans back and lets him, so John can feel himself sinking into him. Can see his face, the look in his eyes. He can feel him opening and stretching and it feels more pronounced than last time, like this, the feeling when their hipbones connect, when he’s gone as deep as he will. Then Mycroft puts his hands on John’s shoulders and raises his legs and the change in position is glorious, _fuck_. John nestles his face right by Mycroft’s, and starts moving in small, short thrusts. He doesn’t trust himself for more, but it doesn’t need to be, Mycroft’s fingers press on John’s shoulders, hold him tightly. The heels of his feet are bony on his back, Mycroft’s cock is obvious, hot and hard between them, and he says, between laboured breaths, “I have wanted this as well, John.” 

John glances at him, surprised, it doesn’t mean a thing, he knows, but to hear it... John leans in fast and Mycroft leans forwards so their lips press together and they’re kissing again, open-mouthed, breathing the same hot, moist air, as he’s slowly, shallowly fucking Mycroft. And John thinks it’s beautiful, he thinks it’s something gorgeous and amazing, this, right now. And as Mycroft kisses him, holds onto his shoulders, pulls him in even closer, John closes his eyes and lets it take him, overwhelm him, until he comes inside him with a groan. 

Mycroft hasn’t yet. John doesn’t pull out, just reaches down and jacks him off, close between their bodies, fingers catching on his stomach and Mycroft’s on every pass. He can feel Mycroft tense around his cock, enough to slowly push him out as he grows soft. He can feel him breathe fast under his lips, his mouth falling slack with pleasure. He can taste his moans, feel his shudders, feel his legs tense, his back arch, and then his come, suddenly warm and wet between their bellies.

Mycroft’s eyes are closed, when John looks at him. 

John moves off of him, and fishes his shirt from the floor. He wipes his hands on it, his stomach. Gets rid of the condom, then lies down again. 

The relaxation is pounding through him now, in long waves. Mycroft’s skin is warm and sweaty against his own. He closes his eyes. God, that was good. He’s _still_ shaking. 

John’s breaths even out, but he keeps his eyes closed. It’s cold. They’re both cooling down rapidly. 

Mycroft moves away a bit as the seconds tick past. Cleans himself up. He’s preparing to leave. 

It’s already, what, two in the morning? John feels worn out with pleasure and alcohol, but what happened before is still behind his eyes. This is simply a delay. There won’t be any escaping it, he knows. So he mumbles, “I doubt I’ll sleep tonight.” Because the sensation of having company is nearly overwhelming. The dip in the mattress. Mycroft’s breathing. Maybe that’ll be enough to trick his brain. Maybe that’ll be enough that he won’t have to see the images of Sherlock shooting a man, in instant replay, for hours and hours to come. 

Mycroft breathes out slowly. “I do not believe I will sleep, either.” There’s a bit of a question to it. 

John sits up in answer, leans over Mycroft, and without looking at him, turns the lamp off. Then gathers the tangle of sheet and blankets back up from by their feet, and pulls them up high enough to cover Mycroft’s shoulders, too, and lies down. Mycroft can leave, if he wants to. But he doesn’t have to. 

John didn’t close the curtains, so there’s streetlight falling into the room, revealing the room as his eyes adjust to the dark. He can make out the pale shape of Mycroft’s face, but none of his expression. John doesn’t know what to say, more than that. Or if he should say anything. They’re not touching, until Mycroft seems to relax, lies down more easily, and presses his side to him. John leans in. It’s getting warmer, under the sheets. 

John startles when Mycroft shifts, and awkwardly turns to his side, but he’s not leaving. There’s something a little apologetic in it, as if he doesn’t really want to, but he can’t get comfortable otherwise. So John turns to his side as well, and leans in. His legs fit in the curve of Mycroft’s knees. His belly against his arse. John’s face is close to his back, so he presses his lips to the skin he can reach. Mycroft breathes out shakily. _He’s not leaving._

After a while John lets go of him and turns to lie on his back. His stomach is empty. They never did have Christmas dinner. He throws an arm over his eyes. The alcohol is wearing off, too, he has the beginning of a headache building around his temples. 

A glance over at Mycroft shows that his eyes are nothing but shadows. John can’t tell if they’re open. 

He looks at the ceiling. Again. He can hear the gunshot. The rattling noise of the helicopter. _Don’t fire! Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire..._ John forces his eyes shut, and turns to the other side of the bed, away from Mycroft. 

A couple minutes later Mycroft follows him, and settles his hand on John’s arm. It’s tentative. John doesn’t care; he leans back into his warmth. He can feel the press of Mycroft’s chest against his back with every breath. Something warm and a little sticky near his arse that takes him a while to realise must be Mycroft’s cock. John moves his head backwards too until he can feel Mycroft’s breaths on his neck. It doesn’t last long before that hurts his shoulder and he leans away again. 

They spend the next couple of hours like that. Intertwining, then letting go. Meeting, accidentally, sometimes willingly. John has the strong sense of Mycroft’s knees pressed to his back for a while, but he drifts and suddenly they’re gone. Later he turns around lazily, for a moment forgetting that someone is next to him, and crashes his face right on Mycroft’s sharp shoulder blade. 

Mycroft’s legs are all over the bed. He’s obviously not used to having someone that close either. John’s feet keep on finding them, sometimes banging into them when he stretches out, sometimes just a flash of Mycroft’s cold toes when he realises they’re touching and he pulls them away himself. 

Mycroft’s ticklish there, too; when John runs his big toe over the arch of Mycroft’s foot he twitches away fast enough to move the bed. John presses a kiss to the nearest body part he can reach to make it better, an arm, maybe, and Mycroft hums. 

Mycroft’s hand settles on his cheek for a while, which John thinks is strangely domineering _-be still, my child-_ but he doesn’t care enough to push him away. Then John falls asleep with his forehead pressed to Mycroft’s ribs, and he’s still there, his face warm and sticky where they’re plastered together, when he opens his eyes and there’s some faint light in the room. He realises Mycroft’s _snoring_. It’s not terribly loud, just nasal breathing really, but John feels weird hearing it first thing in the morning. In, out. He moves away and stretches out on his pillow. 

Mycroft wakes soon after that, too, very suddenly. One second he’s asleep, and the next Mycroft’s entire body moves and his eyes open, immediately focusing on him. There’s a faint hint of alarm in them before they settle. John wonders if he was dreaming, or if he mistook him for someone else for a second. 

John tries for a smile. “Morning.” 

Mycroft blinks, and presses his hands to his face. “I did sleep?” He sounds grave. 

“Yes. Me too, a bit.” John sits up so he can see the clock, which is not the best idea to do quickly. His head is pounding, and he feels a wave of nausea. It’s four minutes past seven.

Mycroft sits up as well. The covers slip down and reveal red spots all over the skin of his neck and chest, where John must have sucked, maybe bitten. John doesn’t remember doing that, exactly, although he’s sure he did. Mycroft catches his gaze, and follows his eyes down. He looks at his chest, and his lips pull into a brief, private smile. Then he pushes the covers back, and gets up. John gets to see the long line of his back again as he walks to the chair, and starts dressing quickly. 

John pulls his clothes up to the bed, remembers what he used his shirt for last night, and settles on pulling just the jumper over his head, then getting into his trousers. The condom is lying wrinkled and forgotten on the floor. 

John waits until Mycroft is dressed, and goes downstairs with him. “You want a cuppa?” John is more than ready for one, and perhaps a painkiller or two. 

“No, I have to go. Thank you.” Mycroft is looking at him in quick glances, maybe not entirely sure on how to deal with a morning after, John thinks. “You are going to Mary?”

John stills. He’d forgotten about her. 

He doesn’t know how he even managed that, waking up next to _Mycroft_ , and his thoughts had been on Sherlock, of course, all through the night and immediately this morning, but he hadn’t even considered Mary. _Not for a second._ Mycroft must be able to tell, because he looks apologetic. 

“I... yes.” John has no choice, does he. They still need her. Moriarty is still out there. John feels honestly sick, now, nothing of the drifting sense of sharing that bed left. They talked about this, about how long it might take for Moriarty to make a move. But it’s all different now Sherlock’s not even here. He swallows. “How long?”

Mycroft sighs. “I don’t know. A couple of weeks, perhaps.” 

John nods. 

They’re standing close to the kitchen, again. Just like the first time. But it’s different now, in the morning, with Mycroft back into his suit. This is the real world; the one where John goes back to Mary and Sherlock killed a man last night. There is nothing good, here.

Mycroft nods back. “I will see you soon, John.”

John opens the door for him, and watches him go.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. January 12th, 2015

 

 

 

John moves back in with Mary. It’s hard, but not in the way he thought it would be. He has to pretend constantly, yes. In his words and actions, in every single moment he shares with her. 

But the worst of it is that it _is_ nice, to talk to her again. To be around her again. They were always more friends than anything else, and she’s trying, too. She doesn’t complain when he’s quiet. When he drinks more than he should, and won’t look at her for hours on end. Maybe that’s why he can stand it.

In return, John doesn’t ask her if it’s his child that makes her smile warm and maternal as she holds her hand against her belly. He doesn’t ask her a single thing. 

He doesn’t visit Sherlock in prison either, because he doesn’t actually seem to be in any known prison. After the first two days of silence Sherlock somehow acquires his phone back and John receives a steady stream of texts from him. John’s intensely glad for every single one, even though Sherlock says nothing of note on where he is (John suspects in some super-secret facility, Mycroft’s doing), how he is, or when he’s getting out. Instead it’s Sherlock deducing guards and shady government types, and sending him on an errand or two that he only half-understands, which is actually much more reassuring than anything else from Sherlock could be. 

Mycroft texts him only once, to tell him that Sherlock will be taking a secret mission, and the time and place where he’ll be leaving from. John doesn’t know if it’s true or if it’s information that has to get back to Moriarty, but he makes sure to leave his mobile lying around the living room anyway, and even asks Mary to come along to the airfield and see Sherlock off with him. 

But on the day itself he’s still tense as hell. He’s taken the whole day off, still he’s up at six, and there when Mary comes down for her breakfast. She’s working the morning shift. She looks at him and sighs. “He’ll be fine, John.” And then, “Why don’t you go see Mycroft and find out more about it, if you’re worried?” 

John makes sure to pull his face a little. For all she knows, he’s not too fond of Mycroft. But he was told to follow her lead whenever possible; there might be a reason why she wants him to go. John pretends to reluctantly think about it. “Yeah. Maybe.” 

As soon as she leaves, John sends a text. It’s early, but Mycroft’s likely awake, or soon to be anyway. John hesitates a bit about the wording, tries to make it sound as if he’s worried for Sherlock, but not about to admit to it. Mycroft sends him the address of an office, in a completely different building than the ones John’s been in before. He goes. 

It takes him a bike ride, several tube connections and a dizzying walk through hordes of morning commuters to end up in a skyscraper, central London, going up in a metallic-smelling lift. It opens to what seems like an average business floor, with some people bent over tablets, talking into phones, it’s very high-tech, and the people are suspiciously well dressed. John spots a gun on some of them. 

No one is looking at him, but at the same time he’s sure he’s been scanned and vetted several times on the way up alone. He doesn’t ask after Mycroft, just walks through as if he belongs, to the right door. He knocks on it, gets buzzed in, and enters to see Mycroft sitting behind a strangely futuristic desk. The wall is all glass, large windows showing the beginning of a clear sunrise over the London skyline. It’s beautiful, albeit nothing like Mycroft’s usual style. 

“John.” Mycroft says, as he closes his laptop. He smiles, lightly. 

John blinks. It’s good to see him. It really is. He’s been focused too much on dealing with Mary to think about Mycroft much, somehow afraid that she’ll be able to read it from his face, but now that he’s here, John can’t help but feel like a weight is lifted. 

“Everything all right?” Mycroft asks, still looking at him, taking him in, John thinks. 

The door closes behind him. “Yes, um, Mary suggested I’d come and see you, actually.”

“Did she.” Mycroft’s face loses some of its vivacity, but not wholly. 

“Yes. I was nervous about Sherlock, where he’s going to, so, I don’t think it’s anything, but...” 

“You decided to come by anyway?” Mycroft asks. John isn’t sure if he’s imagining it, but there’s something just a little gratified in his tone. 

“Well, she didn’t have to tell me twice.” John admits. He looks around. “New office, then?” 

“Hmm.” Mycroft says. “I find it helps to be unpredictable.” 

John nods. “Is he...” He probably shouldn’t say Moriarty’s name in here regardless of the security, he thinks. “Is it expected soon then?”

“Very soon.” Mycroft says. “I imagine today.” 

_Oh!_ John feels himself stand up straighter. He hadn’t thought it would be so soon, but on the other hand he’s glad, if it is they can finally start dealing with Moriarty, start doing something. “Because Sherlock is...”

“Scheduled to leave the country on a long-term, potentially life-threatening mission, yes. I expect there will be a disturbance within thirty minutes of Sherlock taking off, and he will be forced to return immediately to deal with it.” Mycroft seems to be cautiously optimistic. 

John nods. _That’s good._ Or as good as it can be, for them. He eyes Mycroft. _God, it really is nice to see him._ John walks closer. “Are you... busy then?” It’s probably too much to ask, John thinks, there’s a reason why the man is at an unmarked office at eight in the morning. 

Mycroft smiles indulgently. He knows _exactly_ what he’s asking. “I believe I have a couple of minutes.” 

“Just a couple?” John leans against the desk. 

Mycroft quirks an eyebrow. “Will you be needing more?”

John laughs. Mycroft presses a button on his desk that does something complicated to the door. It’s more than just a lock; it involves something digital, a screen next to it flashing. Then he shifts his chair backwards, and gets up. 

John steps close, aware that this is it then. The last couple of hours before it will be running through London again, bombs and threats and Moriarty. And it feels exciting, the prospect, also terrifying, and raw. There’s a plan but plans go wrong, so there’s no guarantee, there’s never a guarantee... 

John reaches out, and focuses on undoing Mycroft’s trouser buttons. He’s missed this, his body. His touch. He’s missed _him_ , these last weeks. Mycroft helps him, and John’s hands find his cock, then wander under his shirt, to his belly, the warmth of his chest. It’s greedy, in a way. But Mycroft seems to feel the same, his hands were on John’s fly but he leaves that and just pulls him close, holds him against him and John sighs, arousal growing. The smell of him. The feel. 

John wants to take all of Mycroft’s clothes off. Get him naked, rub their skin together until they’re nothing but sweat and yearning. Fuck Mycroft on that desk, while the bright sun reflects on the buildings outside and blinds them with it. 

He unzips his own trousers, pushes them and his pants down, and his cock bumps against Mycroft’s hip. John hasn’t gotten anywhere near Mary of course, hasn’t considered jerking off except in the shower once or twice, so maybe that explains it, why this feels like a bolt of heat to have Mycroft’s skin against his. To feel him, warm and smooth and so real. John’s hands are on Mycroft’s arse, his cock is pressing against Mycroft’s belly, and it’s not that much really but Mycroft was right, he’s more than ready for it. 

Mycroft has a small smile tugging on the corner of his mouth that’s hard to resist, so John drifts upwards, and boldly cups Mycroft’s jaw. It’s not because they kissed once in the dark that he’ll want to do it again, John thinks, but Mycroft’s eyes flicker over him and it’s him who closes the distance. Their lips touch with a soft, dry trace of a kiss. John licks his way into Mycroft’s mouth slowly, feels his groan on his tongue. 

Mycroft puts a hand on his arse and pulls him in, their hips press together while John gets to taste him, kisses him more eagerly than he should, perhaps, but he wants to, _God…_ Mycroft is giving it back to him, using his height advantage to hold him right there, hands firm on his back, seemingly happy to kiss him, elated, really, if his cock pressing against John’s belly is an indication. 

John gets a hand between them, wraps it around Mycroft’s cock, and Mycroft does the same to him. Their knuckles bump together as they move up and down. Mycroft’s thumb traces over the head, and John sucks in a breath. Mycroft grins, does it again, slower. 

John can feel his legs start to tremble. He swallows. “Do you have anything here, condom?”

“No. I did not anticipate your visit.” Mycroft pauses, and seems to consider something. “Nor do I stock them in my office, generally speaking.” 

John wonders if that’s an oversight that’s going to be corrected next time he’s here. This probably is some control centre, with that security system it’s secret service, most likely MI5, all around them. _And they’re about to have sex right in the middle of it._ John has to admit that that adds a certain something. 

Mycroft is looking at his face, taking in every minute movement. He’s moving his hand slow but certain, his eyes are bright, he’s unapologetically enjoying it, looking John up and down. 

John leans against Mycroft’s neck, Mycroft takes his jaw and kisses him, deeply. Then sinks to his knees. John lets out a frankly undignified sound. 

“Yes?” Mycroft says, and breathes against his cock. Fuck. John’d almost forgotten how much of a tease he is when he’s in a good mood. 

Mycroft uses the very tip of his tongue to lick a wet stripe over his cock. Circles it around the head. Then sucks him into his mouth, and John leans back, takes a half-step back so he can lean against the desk, Mycroft crawling on his knees to stay close, and _oh, this is fucking heaven._

Mycroft teased him so much last time he did this that he never got to feel him like this, what it’s like to be fully into his mouth. It’s striking, the sight of Mycroft on his knees, cheeks hollowing out as he sucks. The flutter of his eyelashes as he closes his eyes, the slick pop with which John’s cock slides from between his lips, red and wet now. The warm rush of his breath. 

John wants to do this on a bed, where he can lie down and watch him suck him slow, let it last forever. Or he wants to pull him up, and kiss him again. Rub off against his leg like some horny teenager, _take it, just take it,_ but Mycroft’s mouth is so goddamn warm on his cock, so sweet, every suck is pulling pleasure from him. John sighs, his breath shuddering out in a rush. Mycroft looks up. “What would you like today, John?” He sounds pleased. He trails his closed lips over his cock, as if he enjoys that, as if that’s… 

“God, _everything_.” John says, and there’s something needy in that that’s embarrassing but it’s true, he wants every single thing, right now.

Mycroft smiles, looks at him, and takes him into his mouth again, all the way in, then lets it trail out. He puts his hands on John’s arse and squeezes it. Closes his eyes, sighs small, soft sighs around John’s cock. Then opens his lips just enough to close around the tip and sucks lightly. John can’t take his eyes away. The errant curl moving on Mycroft’s forehead. The small crow’s feet around his eyes, the profile of his nose, the eggshell delicacy of his eyelids. John reaches out a hand, and touches Mycroft’s cheek. Mycroft leans into his touch, so John traces his hand closer, to the wet spot where his cock meets the edge of Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft sucks his thumb into his mouth as well, and John shudders, suddenly close. 

“I’m going to…” he says it quietly.

Mycroft answers “hmm,” as if he wants him to, as if he’s already looking forward to tasting it, and with that thought John does, spills into his mouth, legs shaking. It feels like it lasts a long time, Mycroft’s mouth taking it, sucking it, drinking him down in that quiet, early morning office. 

Mycroft kisses his thigh, after. His cock is hard, bouncing awkwardly between his legs. His suit is wrinkled by the knees; his lips look hot and glossy. John helps pull him up, and kisses him. He’s never been the kind of man that gets off on tasting himself on other people’s lips, but right now he doesn’t care, he just wants to. He pushes Mycroft around until he hits the edge of the desk and makes a small, choked sound in his mouth. John continues; thumb massaging Mycroft’s neck, his other hand on his side, sliding down. Mycroft’s cock jumps into his hand, and Mycroft breaks their kiss, breathes into it as John strokes him. 

John kisses his neck, then says into his ear, “You want me to suck you, too?” He wouldn’t mind getting on his knees and having him fill up his mouth. 

Mycroft shakes his head, puts his hand over John’s, where he’s moving it, jacking him off. “This. Please.” 

John smiles. “Well, if you say please...” and kisses him again, sucks his lips and tongue. Mycroft holds him close; his hands curl into his jacket, over his arms. And John jacks him off the way he knows he likes it, adds a twist at the end, keeps it light and then squeezes, makes Mycroft’s mouth open under his, his body shake. 

Mycroft swallows, licks his lips, and says, “Yes, John…” to his mouth, so John moves his hand between them, makes it as good as he knows how. Then kisses him because he knows he’s enjoying that, too, and Mycroft comes, groaning into his mouth, wet over his fingers. 

John feels high with it, with getting off like this. Illicitly, hidden away in a posh office. He steps back. 

It’s a mess. He didn’t think this through, and it’s all over his hand now, some spots on Mycroft’s trousers where they hang between his knees, but worse, on the bottom of Mycroft’s waistcoat. It’s rather unmistakable, too, on the dark, pinstripe fabric. 

Mycroft takes out his pocket square. He’s still flushed. 

“Water?” John asks. 

“There’s a bottle.” Mycroft points to the side of the desk, where yes, John finds an unopened bottle of Perrier. He pours a small amount over his hands, then wipes them off with a handkerchief that’s been in his pocket for longer than he can remember. Mycroft is more diligent, carefully dots the stains, then pulls up his trousers. Still it leaves some lighter spots. 

John’s not entirely sorry, to be honest. 

Mycroft doesn’t seem to be as annoyed by it as John would have thought either, he gives up on looking at his suit and folds his pocket square again. Maybe he has a spare in a wardrobe somewhere, John wouldn’t be surprised. Or he can get Anthea to fetch him one, because they’re meeting Sherlock... 

John feels a flash of unease rising up by his throat again. Can’t forget why he is really here. “So… Two PM, the airfield.” 

Mycroft looks up. He doesn’t seem bothered by getting back to business. “Yes. Mary is coming with you?”

John nods. “She said so, yeah.” Mary was right, he is worried. Sherlock will do anything for the thrill of being around Moriarty again, to prove him wrong, and this has the potential to go spectacularly wrong. He could die. _Easily._ John swallows. “Sherlock. You’ll make sure...” 

“I will use every resource in my power to keep him safe.” Mycroft sounds gentle. Understanding. He adds, quietly. “You know that, John.”

John does. When it comes to Sherlock, Mycroft has always been there. 

Then John looks at him, and considers Mycroft, too. As much as Moriarty will be targeting Sherlock, Mycroft will be in the middle of it, whether he wants to be or not. “Watch out for yourself as well, yeah?” 

Mycroft blinks. He looks as if no one has ever suggested that he could possibly get hurt. Or, maybe more to the point, that they’d care if he was. He smiles, a little taken aback. “I will.” 

John nods. Okay, time to leave. Time to let Mycroft get on with running Britain, and planning how to defeat evil masterminds, and god knows what else he does. 

“I’ll see you this afternoon.” Mycroft is still sounding kind. Trying to make him feel better, John thinks, but it’s more than that. His expression is fond. He seems pleased, with this, with getting to see him. 

So this time John walks over to Mycroft, leans upwards, and presses a kiss goodbye to his lips. One that Mycroft answers immediately, even lingers in, for a moment. They separate slowly. 

Mycroft seems surprised, but pleasantly so. “Good luck?” John grins.

Mycroft smiles, and John is struck again by the warmth in his eyes, the depth of it. “You too, John.”

John nods, and leaves with a last look over his shoulder. 

_Time to face Moriarty, and win._

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
